Beyond Words
by SilverGlimmers
Summary: Just my take on the fallout of The Final Problem and that now famous phone call. I really loved the end scene montage and felt like a fic would fill in some gaps. Sherlock learns how to have emotions like a big boy should. Molly is her awesome self.
1. Chapter 1

_**Just my take on the aftermath of The Final Problem. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it! :)**_

 _ **Dedicated to Writingwife83 whose awesome Sherlolly fics inspired me after series 3 and helped motivate me to start writing. You're an inspiration lady! :)  
**_

 **Chapter 1**

"When can we see her?"

"There's no point."

"How dare you say that?" Mrs. Holmes was staring at Mycroft in outrage.

"She won't talk. She won't communicate with anyone in any way; she has passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now." Mycroft didn't look happy saying it, but it was clear he believed it.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes appealed to her younger son. "you've always been the grown up. What do we do now?"

Sherlock looked at his mother, his mind still working the prior conversation. His eyes flickered to his father and Mycroft, both of whom were waiting on his reply. Mycroft averted his gaze after a moment and Sherlock could read the quiet surrender in that gesture. Mycroft would take his little brother's advice seriously.

Sherlock drew in a breath. "Let me handle it. Mother, you'll have to trust me." He took a step forward to hold her shoulders, a move meant to break the protest he could already see forming and looked her directly in the eyes. "I will let you know the moment I feel the time is right. But I need you to trust me and let me work this out with Eurus alone. To do that, I need a bit of time. Not even sure how long. Do you trust me?"

Mrs. Holmes swallowed the words she'd been about to say. She looked into her son's face, and whatever she saw there reassured her. He looked younger somehow. He looked more like her little boy than he had in years. His eyes more open, earnest and making direct contact with hers. He was finally her sweet little boy again but with the confidence of a man.

She put her hands on either side of his face, a move he would have objected to even a week ago. He said nothing, simply held her gaze.

"You promise?"

His gaze never wavered. "I do."

She gave him a trembling smile. "All right then." She patted one cheek. He winced but didn't protest. "Just please don't take too long dear, it's been far too many years already." She gave Mycroft a pointed look as she collected her husband and purse. Mr. Holmes gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder on his way out.

When they were gone Sherlock immediately turned to Mycroft. "I'm going to need a helicopter to Sherrinford at least weekly, possibly twice a week. Oh and a pass card to Eurus' cell. I don't feel like dealing with irritating guards every time I visit." He was already shrugging into his Belstaff.

Mycroft nodded, but his brows were drawn together in a pinch of concern. "What is it you plan to do?"

Sherlock almost chuckled. "What's the matter Mycroft, don't you trust me?"

Mycroft smiled drily. "Of course I do." Sherlock looked up, surprised to hear such a bald statement of trust from Mycroft of all people. At that, Mycroft's tone went silky smooth. "Mummy says I must, after all."

It was a classic Mycroft response, and yet there was sincerity to it that Sherlock had rarely heard before, if ever. Both men gazed at each other, each one remembering the last task at Sherrinford.

Sherlock gave him a smile laced with rare familial warmth. "Mummy knows best." He headed for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to see what I can salvage from 221B. Have the helicopter ready for me at five."

"Today?" Mycroft twitched a look at his watch. It wasn't even twelve hours since their harrowing experience had ended. They'd spent much of the time since dealing with the authorities, getting Eurus settled back into Sherrinford and alerting their parents to what had happened. Sherlock hadn't even been home in order to change yet, though John had left much sooner to collect Rosie and go home. "Why the rush?"

Sherlock stopped halfway out the door, caught in his own thoughts. It was a full second before he turned back to face Mycroft's desk. "I don't want to be a liar. And we might as well start rebuilding. It won't happen by itself." He headed out the door to his next challenge.

Mycroft stared after him. "Yes, might as well." He collected his umbrella and coat too.

* * *

Molly snapped gloves into place and reached for her sharpest scalpel. She took a moment to breathe deeply in order to focus. It wouldn't do to keep being so distracted. Already she'd had to reweigh several organs and fix three filing errors. It didn't help that she kept getting interrupted. Her mind was back in her flat, on the phone with Sherlock and wishing she'd just hung up.

Bending over her latest postmortem, she made a careful incision and laid back a flap of skin. No. If she was being honest that was only partly true. But she was still angry, still hurting, still exposed and vulnerable.

"Molly?"

She started at hearing that voice and sent her scalpel skittering across the floor. But she didn't move to retrieve it, just stood there gripping the exam table. Her jaw clenched as he moved farther into the lab, footsteps slow and measured. She refused to look up, only looked down at the body she was working on. Mr. Williamson. Lucky bastard, she'd be perfectly fine trading places with him right now.

On the periphery of her vision, she could see him move to pick up her fallen scalpel and bring it back to her. Fine. Let him pick up the pieces. Silence reigned until he stopped on the other side of the examination table and held the instrument out slightly, waiting for her to take it.

"It's soiled now. Put it in the sink." Her voice was low but she was proud that it was above a whisper.

There was a momentary pause. "Right," his voice was also quiet as he moved to do so. He placed the item in the sink tray with perfunctory exactness and when he came back to his same position there was silence once more. Molly managed to stand it for about three seconds.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" her tone was sharp as she lifted her head to give him an angry stare across the late Mr. Williamson, almost daring Sherlock to pretend that nothing had happened.

But it was clear that something had happened. He looked less sure of himself than she was ever used to seeing him. It was like he was in mourning. She could practically see him attempting to pull himself together, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the straps of the black bag he carried. She was certain she saw his Adam's apple bob before he spoke.

"I only came to apologize for—the phone call. I am sorry. I believed I was saving your life."

Her look softened ever so slightly, but not by much. "I know."

His face went blank. "You do?"

"John came by my flat before work."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes skittered away as he processed that information.

"And Mycroft visited me here an hour ago."

"Oh." There was an awkward pause. Of course they would come and try to speak for him, to fix it. The problem was, it didn't look like it was something that could be fixed. Sherlock swallowed again.

"How much…did they tell you?"

"John mentioned a bunch of things that made no sense, a secret prison and a well and a red beard and how you were forced to call me. Mycroft was a bit more understandable. Apparently, you have a deadly and smart secret sister?" Sherlock nodded but didn't offer to elaborate. Molly sighed. "Of course you do."

"I was told the bomb would explode if the release code wasn't spoken from your own lips. It was only afterward that she told me there had never been any explosives."

Molly diverted from that topic immediately. "But there were in your flat. Did it really blow up?" Sherlock nodded. "Can anything be saved?"

"I'm afraid it's nothing but ashes, mostly. Still trying to find what can be…reclaimed." He looked at her the same way he had said goodbye in the hallway after they spent the day solving crimes, but this time with much more desolation. And she knew why. However much he had known about her feelings for him over the years, he had never made her acknowledge them out loud. Forcing her to say it, even under duress, had brought it out into the cold glare of daylight. Nothing could go back to what it was. And part of her hated Sherlock and his sister for it. She couldn't work with him again, couldn't be his friend. She had worried about him and cared for him and worked alongside him, but the phone call had pushed far past the boundaries she needed to be able to do so. Her friendship with Sherlock, however it could be defined, was over.

It was a minor consolation that she had asked him to say it too, and say it like he meant it. It had been the only thing that made it bearable. However under duress it was, she still treasured hearing those words from his lips even just once. Now maybe she could move on.

Sherlock shifted the bag in his hand, uncomfortable in the silence. He tried again. "I would never have asked that of you if it hadn't been for Eurus."

"So you're saying you're sorry it ever happened?" That stung. She'd known from the strangeness of the call that something was off somehow. But she had still had hope that perhaps there was something besides sheer cruelty behind his request. And there was, but in the end it didn't change anything. He didn't love her like that. She had known it couldn't be true, no matter how convincing he had sounded. He should have gone into show business.

"No, not sorry it happened." The answer was immediate and unthinking, as if pulled from the deepest depths of his mind. A crinkle appeared between his brows as he tried to analyze it. Molly waited, confused. Surely the threat of his body parts supply dwindling would make his wish Eurus had never forced him to call?

"What then?" her impatience was showing.

"I'm… just sorry it hurt you." He looked her in the eye.

Molly averted her gaze and looked at a fixed point on the body between them. As apologies went, it was a bit lacking. Also somewhat bewildering. But for Sherlock, it was quite an apology. Molly swallowed. She appreciated his effort, but the truth was all of this had hurt her. This morning she had been prepared to tell him to never contact her again and she would have meant it. Still, he was trying. She could see that. But it didn't fix everything.

The moment was interrupted by a ping on Sherlock's phone. And even though he didn't move to look at it immediately, it was enough to make up her mind.

Molly nodded and met his gaze directly. "Thank you for that, Sherlock, truly. But now I really need to get back to work." She cleared her throat and went to a table for a new scalpel.

It was a clear dismissal and Sherlock understood it as such. He also understood the rift that was now between them, and it appeared to be growing ever wider. His hand clenched into a fist on his bag and he had to resist the urge to break something all over again. He didn't know what else he had expected.

He fished his phone out of his pocket.

HELI WAITING

-MH

His gaze flicked up to Molly, torn. But her back was to him and she was purposely busying herself.

"Of course," his voice was barely a murmur. He pocketed his phone and strode quickly out the door.

Molly forced herself not to look back at him.

* * *

 _I that am lost, oh who will find me…_

The helicopter moved steadily across the sky, but Sherlock's gaze was fixed on the churning waves below. Their roiling chaos, whipped by the wind, was attractive and terrifying at the same time. There was something to be said for emotional detachment, however unhealthy or scary it too might be.

So much had changed in such a small space of time Sherlock was having trouble digesting it all. In between looking through his burned out apartment and finding that his violin was beyond repair, thus necessitating his rush to the nearest music store for a suitable replacement, small memories of Victor popping up at odd moments now that his memory of him was restored, and the emotional fallout of Eurus, his parents, and Molly, he had not stopped moving and thinking or feeling since he first woke up on a table in a makeshift room.

Victor had played penny whistle suitably enough for his age and had thought it was fun to play along with Sherlock's violin practice. It ensured Sherlock wouldn't waste time so they could go outside and play. Spotting one in the music shop had brought that little fragment back and he realized anew how far he'd gone to protect himself as a child.

Molly Hooper could barely look at him, and he'd had so much more he wanted to say but couldn't figure out how to say it. Looking back he could see now how he had boxed up his emotions, fought them and tried to pretend he never had them, tried to pretend he was a high functioning sociopath. But he wasn't one. For a huge part of his life those emotions had come out intermittently and usually with aggression or violence of some kind. He didn't know how to deal with them now without screaming and smashing something.

But he was determined to try. It wasn't aggression that had saved John the night before, it was love given freely to Eurus. As a child he couldn't have foreseen the damage his coping method would do to him emotionally as an adult, but now that he had all the pieces he felt he had a stab at fixing it. The tricky part was figuring out how to handle the raw pulsating emotions and channel them into something more constructive. It was frightening to contemplate, but he felt it must be done. For the sake of his family and his friends, maybe even himself a little.

In some ways he would miss being a high functioning sociopath. After all it allowed him to get away with so much more. But that wasn't who he really was, he knew that now. He wanted to find out who he truly was meant to be. No more making choices in his life without really knowing why. He owed that much to the child he had once been. He owed it to Mary, who seemed to think he was valuable enough to risk her life.

The helicopter began its descent, and Sherlock tried to clear his head for this next step.

* * *

It took longer than he would have liked to get everything settled, considering Sherrinford had just come back under government control and had all new staff members that could be trusted figuring out their first day. But finally, he was moving deeper into the prison and suffering through layer after layer of security leading to his sister's cell.

The lighting was green as the doors opened, and he wondered if it was at her request. When he carefully stepped in, the lights came on fully and he couldn't help remembering what had transpired here last time. He waited for her to speak, but she didn't. She didn't even turn her head from where she sat with her back to him. She looked so small to him now.

He placed his bag on the floor and removed his new violin, checking it quickly to tune it before he started. He didn't even know if this would work, but Eurus needed someone to help tether her to the ground. John Watson had done that for him, he would do it for his sister.

He played the first line almost as an experiment, hesitating after to look for some effect. But Eurus was still. He wondered if she was back on the plane. He took a breath and began to play in earnest.

It wasn't a composed piece or a memorized tune. It wasn't recorded or written down. It was pure musical improvisation and only his years of playing and sporadically composing made him able to do it without jarring notes or miscalculated intonation. The melody rose and fell, occasionally repeating with variations, drawn by whatever whim Sherlock felt was right at the moment.

He'd long since realized that playing the violin was a helpful vent for his emotions, but it only did so much since he refused to beat it against any available piece of furniture. Playing it was most helpful for purging excessive sad or melancholy emotions. He found it quite helpful for that. But this time he was also trying to make contact in the only way he could think of.

The minutes passed as he played and Eurus never moved. But he'd known it might take some time. He put everything he had into it, allowing the notes to communicate for him, to truly display emotion and even some vulnerability. To tell her about remembering Victor and the crippling grief that came with it, almost as bad as realizing that his sister needed him and he had failed her for years. But he was here for her now. He related the last hours and how much their parents cared about her, how angry they had been at the deception. He even slipped in a thank you for not killing Mycroft, although he assured her he understood the temptation. He told her how the first time little Rosie held his finger in her fist he had realized how very fragile life could be, and how harsh a man he had become. That line of thought led him to Mary and so he talked about her. Brave, wonderful, smart and caring Mary and how her loss still grieved him.

As he felt himself coming to a natural end, he found himself talking about Molly. Molly, who barely looked at him now. Molly, who was done with him. Brave, smart, beautiful, sees through his crap and he knows it Molly.

Molly, who he never thought he'd say three little words to and yet once she had pulled it out of him he'd had to say it again. Because it was true. And he had never acknowledged it before that moment.

The last sustained violin note quivered through the air as he held it, and then faded away. He lowered his bow and looked at his sister even though he had never really taken his eyes off her since entering the room. She still hadn't stirred. His eyes stared at the back of her head, intense and deep. Nothing.

Finally, he packed his violin away and left. The guard outside the cell door peered at him closely. "You must be tired."

"How so?" Sherlock was adjusting his coat.

"You've been in there almost two hours." Sherlock gave the guard a startled glance. He hadn't even realized the time.

Once he was back on the helipad he texted Mycroft a single phrase.

ONCE MORE INTO THE FRAY

-SH

He never could resist a touch of drama.

* * *

 ** _And we're off! I'm not sure how many chapters there will be but I know where I'm going with it and it should be somewhat obvious lol. Hope you liked it and feel free to hit the comments. :)  
_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well this chapter ended up much bigger than I thought, so I split it into two. Yay, you get two chapters! :D**

 **Thank you for all the wonderful feedback, you guys are the best. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it!**

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock stood in the center of his burned-out home and surveyed the damage. The walls were blackened, the floor littered with various refuse that used to be books and bric-a-brac from the mantel or bookcases, overturned furniture.

Despite the incredible danger she'd placed them in, it was quite obvious that Eurus had convinced someone (Sherlock privately thought Moriarty) to reduce the amount of explosives in the patience grenade. While the front room and part of the kitchen had taken the most damage, the back bedrooms had emerged relatively unscathed. The windows were broken out of course, but the walls and floor had retained their integrity. On the surface, it looked like his home had been destroyed. But once they swept away the ashes there would be a solid foundation on which to rebuild. A small mercy from his sister, though perhaps she had never really intended to kill him. Only get his attention and she had certainly done that.

He could hear the soft murmur of voices downstairs, so it was no surprise to him when John materialized in the doorway and joined him. It took less than five seconds for them to reach an unspoken agreement and get to work. When John came up with the headphones and turned his way, Sherlock was already holding the bison skull. John placed the headphones on it and tossed the cord over it, then moved to pick up the human skull that had been relocated in the blast. It was by the doorway to the stairs. John picked it up and held it for a moment, his face very serious. He opened his mouth to ask about Victor and Eurus, but then thought better of it. Sherlock had already righted his overturned chair and was looking out the window, still absently holding the bison skull cradled in one arm.

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson ascending the stairs with Rosie. She already had a damp cloth and some rubber gloves in one hand, Rosie straddling her hip.

"Look, Rosie here's daddy." She handed John his daughter and headed straight for the chair Sherlock had just righted. "Oh good, it's not that bad. Still in good shape. We just need to clean off the soot." She got busy doing just that. True to form, both men stood and watched her. She was just finishing up when a voice called from below.

"Hello?"

"Up here!" Mrs. Hudson rushed to the door, waving in three men wearing coveralls and holding brooms. "They're going to help clean up this mess so we can get it back to rights."

"Ah, excellent!" Sherlock promptly plopped into the newly cleaned chair and pulled out his phone. John shook his head, smiling, and headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock opened his texts. The last one from Mycroft was on the top.

ONCE MORE INTO THE FRAY? WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? –MH

Sherlock smiled, inwardly laughing as he texted back.

I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE SMART ONE. FIGURE IT OUT. ALSO, I WILL NEED THE HELICOPTER TO SHERRINFORD TOMORROW AND TWICE A WEEK FROM NOW ON. –SH

OUR PARENTS ARE ALREADY ASKING ME WHEN YOU WILL ASK THEM FOR A VISIT. -MH

Sherlock's smile became that much smugger. BETTER YOU THAN ME. TELL THEM PATIENCE. I WILL BE IN TOUCH. –SH

When it came, he could practically hear his brother's resigned reply.

FINE… -MH

* * *

"Hey, um, Molly?"

"Oh, hi Greg." Molly looked up from a mound of paperwork she was working on. She frowned at the black bag he was holding. "What's that?"

Greg threw a quick look over his shoulder and stepped further into the lab. "I was hoping you could be the one to identify these remains. We want to keep it out of the papers as much as possible."

"Remains?" Molly gave the bag a closer look. It was half the size of a typical body bag and didn't look very full. "Doesn't seem to be very much, does it?" She took the bag from his hands and looked at the tag. "Request to cross check with dental records of Victor Trevor." She looked at the bag again. "Is this a child?" She didn't like doing children, it was disturbing.

"Yeah," Greg's face was serious. "Victor Trevor has been missing for years, and we're pretty sure John found his remains the night before last. We had to empty the well to make sure we got everything and we want a positive ID if possible before we tell his parents."

"John found—wasn't the night before last when Sherlock's sister tried to kill him?" Greg nodded. "So, what, he just happened to find the body of a missing child? That's lucky."

Greg was already shaking his head. "Victor Trevor was Sherlock's best friend when he was a kid. Eurus pushed him down a well. I don't have all the details, but yeah, that's why we were hoping to keep this quiet and that's not just me talking, it's Mycroft too."

"Sherlock's best friend was murdered?" Molly's mouth was open in horror. "He's never mentioned that before."

"Yeah, well, he never mentions anything, does he? But I think this was something even he'd forgot he knew. Or something like that…" Greg stopped talking, looking discomfited. "Anyway, do you think you could?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah, of course."

"Thanks, Molly." Greg headed out.

Molly placed the bag on the nearest empty exam table and carefully unzipped it. Her hands trembled slightly as she removed bone after bone, placing each one gingerly on the table. She left the skull for last, but it didn't help. When she removed it and held its small size in both hands, she could feel the tears already burning. Sherlock's best friend had died when they were young? The skull was so small…

The last thing she pulled from the bag was a cracked, water-damaged wooden sword.

"Damn it..."

She continued to choke out curses as she pulled her phone out of her lab coat and pushed one of the numbers she had set to auto dial.

"Damn bloody Sherlock Holmes…"

He was like a drug for her.

* * *

John had left Mrs. Hudson to fuss over the state of Sherlock's things and was downstairs with Rosie when his phone rang. He bounced Rosie on his knee and answered with his free hand.

"Hello."

"What happened to you and Sherlock the other night?" It was Molly, and she didn't sound happy.

"I told you, the other morning…"

"You said a lot of things that didn't make sense, and then I get the bones of Sherlock's childhood friend." John winced, groaning internally. Molly continued. "You didn't tell me anything about this."

John squirmed in his chair, bouncing his daughter even faster. "It's not my place to talk about Sherlock's family and his past." As always, an emotional conflict was difficult for him to talk about. He could practically feel Mary somewhere laughing at him.

"God, I wish Mary was still here."

The words, an eerie echo of what he was already thinking, rang in John's ear. It shocked him into tense stillness. He had to swallow and clear his throat before he replied. "Why's that then?"

"Because she would actually tell me what's going on! This is my life too. It's me getting bomb threats and phone calls!"

"Yes, but there wasn't any bomb, I told you that—"

But Molly was showing no signs of listening. "This is a big deal. Has he started on the drugs yet? I bet he has. I can't keep on trying to put him together!"

John sat stock still under the onslaught, staring at Rosie. Even the baby seemed to be sensing the tension.

"Every time something happens to you two I get left holding the bag, trying to put the pieces together. And now I'm holding the bag of Sherlock's dead childhood friend and I'm sure he's not taking it well. He doesn't take anything well anymore." Her voice was rising with every word. Rosie began to fuss lightly. "I'm not doing it anymore, John! Do you hear me?" Her voice broke a little. "I…can't keep doing it…not when he knows—"

 _Not when he knows I love him._ The unspoken words hung in the sudden silence between them.

John swallowed again. _Oh God…_ He looked at the ceiling and gave it real thought before he spoke.

"Okay, you're right. You should be told what's going on. I'm sorry, I just have a hard time with this stuff." He shifted Rosie to a more comfortable position and rubbed her back which seemed to soothe her. Molly was silent on the phone. John steadied himself with a breath. "Sherlock didn't remember his own sister. He'd blocked her out and rewritten his memories. He remembered Victor as his dog. Eurus put us through hell and when Sherlock finally solved the riddle and figured out she was lost and alone he was there to comfort her and convinced her to tell him where I was. He's been through a lot." He lowered his voice. "But I don't see any signs of drug use yet."

"Okay," Molly's voice was quiet "well that's good then."

"Yeah…yeah it is." John kissed the top of Rosie's head. He didn't like to think how close he'd come to making her an orphan.

There was a moment of silence before Molly spoke again. "John, I'm sorry about what I said…I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right Molly, really. Don't worry about it." _I still miss her too._

Molly's apologetic tone didn't lessen. "Is there a way I can make it up to you? Maybe take Rosie for a few hours tonight?"

John's mouth was open to refuse when a sudden thought struck. "Yeah, um yeah, that would be great. But I'll be at 221B can you come by there?"

If he hadn't known there would be silence after that request he'd have thought she'd hung up him. He waited, putting off an air that he had no idea how much he was asking of her.

"Um, I don't—"

Sensing a refusal, he cut her off. "Please Molly, I know Rosie would love to see her other godmum. Mary was so happy to ask you…" he deliberately left the words hanging. He winced at himself, knowing he was laying it on a bit thick. John wasn't used to managing people. That was more Mary's department. It seemed he was filling in for her in more ways than he'd realized.

There was a muffled sigh over the phone. "All right. I get off at five."

John grinned conspiratorially at Rosie. The baby smiled back, blowing bubbles. "Great! Thanks Molly, really appreciate it. See you then."

"Okay. Bye." Molly's confused tone indicated she wasn't quite sure how she had got to this point.

John pocketed his phone and stood up, raising his daughter high in the air with both hands before lowering her to kiss her cheek. "Ah, Rosie my love, your mum is still teaching me things." He turned to the fridge. "Let's see what Mrs. Hudson has for tea."

* * *

That evening at five John made sure he was planted in 221B with Rosie and her diaper bag. He'd been prepared to invent some kind of excuse for Sherlock to be present as well, but it turned out he didn't have to. Once he casually mentioned that Molly was coming by to pick up Rosie in about an hour Sherlock suddenly abandoned his plan to go out for chips and decided it was better to sift through one of the piles of charred books to see if there were any worth salvaging. John had to slink back into the kitchen to hide his incredibly wide grin. Once it was under control John noticed a distinct odor coming from Rosie. That brought another smile.

"Sherlock, bring the diaper bag in, will you?" Sherlock appeared momentarily with the requested item, and John traded Rosie for the bag.

There was a moment of confused silence while each waited for the other.

"Well?" John was giving Sherlock a very expectant look. Sherlock just looked confused.

"Well, what?"

John nodded at the baby in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock's jaw dropped.

"No."

"I think it's time you learned how to change one of these."

"I really don't think that's my area." Sherlock made to return the child to her father, but John's arms didn't move to receive her.

"It's time to make it your area. You are godfather, you have certain responsibilities to fulfill—"

"No one ever asked me before!"

"That's because Mary took care of most of it." That bald statement was followed by an uncomfortable silence.

"So you're saying that in order to honor my friend, I must learn to change her child's stinky diapers?" Sherlock only looked half outraged by now.

John nodded. "That's what I'm saying."

Sherlock struggled with that thought for a moment before conceding. "Okay, fine." He laid Rosie on the kitchen table.

"You're supposed to put the mat under her, so you don't contaminate the area if it gets messy."

"Oh please, this table has seen much worse."

"Okay, now I want you to use the mat to protect Rosie from God knows what."

"It's fine! She's fine. Right, Rosie?" Sherlock made brief eye contact with the baby as he unsnapped her romper. She was already kicking her legs, cooing at him. "Now I'll have you know this is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you, but we'll just have to get through it. Thankfully you'll forget this by the age of three, which is a great mercy since otherwise I'd never be able to look you in the eyes again."

"Sherlock for God's sake…" John had already unpacked the necessary items and was holding a clean diaper and the wipes. Sherlock undid the fasteners and opened the diaper. He instantly recoiled.

"How can something so small…"

"—create something so big? Believe me, I've been asking that since she was born." John handed Sherlock a wipe.

"The stench is overpowering…"

"That's a laugh considering I regularly open this refrigerator and smell rotting thumbs."

"That is for science, John. I don't see how I could possibly gain any scientific knowledge from this." Sherlock was making faces as he wiped.

"No, no, front to back. Always wipe front to back."

"Perhaps there is some kind of training class I could attend…a youtube video…"

"Just keep going, for God's sake you're almost done."

"How do you…?"

"Hold her feet. No, she's not a chicken, like this."

"I'm beginning to think this is worse torture than Eurus' little experiments."

"Ah well, this is one you get to endure again and again. Lucky for you and Rosie."

"There." Sherlock had finally managed to trade the dirty diaper for the clean one and breathed a sigh of relief. John looked at him, incredulous.

"You're not done yet you need to fasten it."

"I know I just needed a bit of a breather. Rosie, you may never in your life doubt the depths of my affection for you or your parents. Never."

"Don't listen to him Rosie, you need to give him some gray hairs along the way."

"Finally!" Sherlock fastened the last tab and stood up straight. "Please tell me that's the last one for a few days."

John was about to happily disabuse Sherlock of that particular notion when there was a knock on the door frame of the entry to the kitchen. Both men looked up as if caught doing something criminal.

Molly stood in the doorway, and while neither could be sure how long she had been there both were reasonably sure it was long enough because she was fighting laughter and chewing on her lower lip.

"Sorry, the door was open…" Her voice was full of held in laughter, until her eyes met Sherlock's gaze. Then her eyes skittered over Sherlock and landed on Rosie. Sherlock noted it and suddenly found the floor very interesting.

John was quickly putting the baby's clothes back in order. "No worries, Molly, Just making sure Rosie is clean and ready for you." He picked up the baby and handed her back to Sherlock. "Here Sherlock, take her to Molly while I get her bag packed up again." John fought a grin as he shoved diapers, wipes, and the unused mat back into it.

Sherlock slowly moved around the table toward Molly, who shifted nervously as he drew closer. She wasn't laughing anymore. He smiled briefly at her before placing Rosie in her arms and then stepped back. Molly smiled down at Rosie before lifting her eyes reluctantly to focus on the man who had just handed her over.

Sherlock was gazing at both of them, small smile remaining on his lips. Molly hesitantly returned it. She accepted the bag from John, who had come around the other side of the table and, after giving Rosie a brief kiss, melted into the background.

Molly cleared her throat. "Just…uh…doing John a favor." Her smile was getting more and more awkward the longer she delayed leaving. Memories of their last phone call were seeping back. She could still hear her own voice breaking over the phone. _It's always been true…_ God, she felt humiliated. Even finding out about Victor Trevor couldn't make that go away.

Sherlock was nodding. "Of course, of course. That's what a good godmother does." He gave her a sincere and much bigger smile, trying to put her at ease. Unfortunately, it didn't mask his suddenly flushed face.

Molly was looking at her watch even though she knew full well what time it was. "Well, better get going." Molly looked past Sherlock to John, who quickly closed his open hanging mouth. "Eight-thirty?"

John nodded. "Yes. I'll come get her. Thanks, Molly."

"Sure. Bye." Molly shifted Rosie and turned to leave, taking one last look at Sherlock before she headed down the stairs.

Sherlock didn't move an inch as they listened to them descend the stairs. It was only after the faint sound of the front door closing echoed up to them that John, who had up until then been staring at his best friend with his mouth open again, finally spoke.

"Oh my God…."

Sherlock exhaled through bared teeth. "Shut up John…"

John shifted back and forth, undecided on how far to push it. "Wow. I knew you were friends but all this time I thought it was Irene Adler you were pining for."

"Shut. Up. John."

"But this, wow. Eurus figured you out before I did. I feel so blind."

"Surely that's not an unusual feeling for you?" Sherlock stalked into the burned out living room and threw himself into his chair.

John followed slowly, stopping by his own freshly steam cleaned chair. Mrs. Hudson would sleep well tonight. He looked at Sherlock and noted how different this was from the time The Woman had texted him on his birthday. Then, Sherlock had been if anything embarrassed to admit he had emotions at all, much less ties to a woman even if it was only through text. But this was different. Sherlock actually looked like he was in pain. In fact, he looked closer to the way he had after Eurus' experimental phone call than he had at any time since. Private emotions and thoughts laid bare for all to see. Or mock. John's humor in the situation slid away.

Vivisection, indeed.

John picked up his coat. "Let's go."

"Go where?" Sherlock was looking up at him like a sullen child.

"I have a few hours free. We're going to see Greg. Maybe he has something good for you to solve, even if it's an easy one. Better than sitting around in your shambles of a flat all night."

There was a beat of silence as Sherlock considered it. Then he rushed from his chair to fetch his coat.

* * *

 _ **LOL I admit I had way too much fun imagining Rosie's diaper change! Great fun. No Eurus conversation this time, but another one is coming soon. Next chapter should be up shortly. Thanks for reading! :)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Here you go, the second of two chapters today. :) Read Chapter 2 first, thanks for reading!**_

The next morning Molly had acquired the correct dental records and positively identified the skeletal remains as Victor Trevor. It was a depressing thing no matter who the child ended up being, but confirmation that it was Sherlock's childhood best friend put him in her mind and once he was there he refused to leave.

She dithered between making contact or not, but eventually she convinced herself that he deserved to know and it was merely courtesy and respect that led her to send him a text.

I HAVE SOME INFORMATION FOR YOU.

She checked her phone every minute or so for the first half hour, waiting for him to reply. The next hour she spent every five minutes doing it. Finally, she decided it would be okay to call. She just needed to get this information off her mind so that she could focus on her work.

But there was no answer. Not the first or the second time she called. Not after the second or third text, not after the fourth. It seemed he didn't wish to talk to her.

Or something else had happened.

During her lunch break she called Mrs. Hudson, who hadn't seen anything of Sherlock after he left early that morning. She texted John and Greg, both of them at work, but neither had seen him since last night. She had no idea how to get Mycroft on the phone, she didn't have his number. She stared at her phone and noted that none of her texts had been read. So he didn't have his phone. Or he was too busy to notice.

Or too high.

That cancerous thought wound its way through her mind and filled it with fear. After Mary's death and Sherlock's heavy drug use then, she wouldn't put it past Sherlock to deal with this newfound trauma in exactly the same way. It was becoming his pattern. Molly tried to harden herself against him, telling herself it was his life and if he chose to go down that road she wasn't going to pull him back. He had to make his own choices.

Nevertheless, she still found herself rushing out from work when her shift was over and heading straight to Baker Street.

She dashed in and up the stairs. The door was unlocked, as always, but the flat was still and dark.

"Sherlock?"

Her voice echoed back to her. Mrs. Hudson must have paid top money because the windows were already replaced, depriving the room of the breezes that had been flowing through. She drifted to the kitchen, looking for drug paraphernalia or anything else that looked out of place. Everything looked the same as it had the night before as far as she could tell.

She moved to the bedrooms and bath, peeking carefully into each doorway. There was no one. He really wasn't here. The quiet seemed ominous and foreboding, even though she tried to convince herself it was just her imagination running away. Her ears picked up sound.

A single voice murmured as it ascended the stairs.

Her heart caught in her throat. If it was Sherlock and if he was high she wouldn't be surprised if she pushed him back down that staircase. She rushed down the hall and into the doorway, mouth open to demand where he'd been—

John and Rosie were staring back at her in alarm.

"What's wrong?" John moved up the stairs faster and into the flat as Molly slid to one side to allow him in.

"Sherlock hasn't answered one of my texts or phone calls and I've been trying to reach him all day. Something's wrong." Molly looked John in the face. "I'm worried he's using again."

John's face crumpled into consternation. "No. He wouldn't. Would he? I got him a case just last night, wasn't a very good one, it was too easy but still…" John looked between Rosie and Molly as if waiting for an answer. Whatever he got didn't reassure him. "He'd better not be using again. I know things have been hard lately, but he better bloody not be."

"If he is, he's going back in the boot." Mrs. Hudson was standing on the landing, having followed John up, and had clearly overheard them.

Both John and Molly were about to answer that with an emphatic yes, but their attention was caught by the front door slamming downstairs. They waited as footfalls loped up the stairs and Sherlock came around the corner. He came to a crashing halt on the landing, coat still on and black bag in one hand. His gaze went from person to person, registering their anger and disappointment (with the exception of Rosie, who simply drooled a bit) and instantly became wary.

"What's wrong? Is there some stairway meeting I've missed?"

John clenched his jaw. "Mrs. Hudson please take Rosie downstairs, I don't want her near her godfather at the moment."

Mrs. Hudson hurried to obey; she quickly took Rosie downstairs and gave Sherlock a wide berth on her way back down. Sherlock watched with mounting concern. When the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat closed Molly and John looked at Sherlock like disapproving parents demanding an explanation. Sherlock stared back, baffled.

"What?"

John had never felt more like a father in his life. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock's gaze wavered. "Out. Surely I don't need to inform you of my every movement?"

"I've been calling you all day." For the first time since the phone call, Molly was able to meet his eyes and maintain eye contact. "Why haven't you answered? What have you been doing?"

Sherlock stared at her. He recognized that look. "Are you going to slap me again?"

"That depends."

"On wha—"

John ran out of patience. "Let's just get this over with shall we?" He lunged forward and yanked the bag out of Sherlock's hand.

"Careful!" Sherlock's voice was showing genuine concern.

"What, careful with your drugs? Careful with your hypodermics?" John dropped the bag on the kitchen table and quickly unzipped it as Sherlock anxiously followed him. Molly came in last, looking between the two with worry and concern. "Careful with your—" John's words stopped as he got a look at what was in the bag. He pulled out a violin bow and the neck of a violin. "Oh. It's your violin."

"Of course it's my bloody violin, what else would it be?" Sherlock yanked the bow and bag away from John.

John was too surprised to answer but Molly wasn't above answering the question. "We were worried you had drugs, Sherlock. Sorry. And honestly, with you, there could be lots of other things in there. Body parts, soil samples, weapons, even drugs…" her voice tapered off as he stared at her, and she realized there was something in his eyes she had never seen there before.

John had finally recovered enough to pick up the conversation. "Sherlock, why are you carrying your violin around in a bag? Where have you been all day?"

Sherlock hesitated briefly. "I flew out to Sherrinford. I play for my sister."

Both John and Molly stared at him. This time John recovered first. "You—you're playing for Eurus? Why?"

Sherlock looked away, flustered and embarrassed. "She's beyond verbal communication. She doesn't talk to anyone. She's…lost…and I'm trying to make contact with her."

While they processed that, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and thumbed through that day's activity. His eyebrows rose as he took in at least ten messages or calls from Molly and several from Greg and John. Even Mrs. Hudson had called twice. He gave Molly an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't want any disturbances while at Sherrinford and on the way back I was deep in thought and forgot it was on silent."

Molly managed a quick smile. "That's okay. Sorry I accused you of doing drugs."

His lips quirked. "You have good reason to wonder. But no, I'm not doing drugs. I have actually been doing fine on that front."

"How are we supposed to know that? How can we trust you?" John was vacillating between two topics, unable to decide which was more important.

Sherlock's face was full of innocence. "The last two time periods I used, each one was for a specific reason."

"What reasons?" Molly was studying him closely.

"The first was for a case—"

"—and the month after I got married, I think you were throwing a tantrum—"

Sherlock ignored John and kept going. "—and the next was for Mary, to save John."

"— and because you lost Mary, you can't blame us for being worried that this last experience is going to send you into the deep end again." John hadn't even paused to breathe.

"I am endeavoring to find a different route this time A better coping method, a better pattern. That involves making a connection with my sister." Sherlock made eye contact with Molly. "And that's the truth."

Molly could read the naked honesty on his face. He was telling the truth. "Oh. Well that's good isn't it—?"

John interjected. "Wait, why are you playing for her? Why do you even care? She's crazy Sherlock, she's beyond help. She has killed so many people, she started as a child, and how do you even know she's not reprogramming you?"

Sherlock gave him a look of frustration. "Unlike yourself, John, I do care about having a relationship with my sister, however flawed she may be." He stalked to the living room and removed his violin from his bag. John and Molly watched as he looked around the room searching for a suitable place to put it and his bow since most of the surfaces were still sporting soot and burned areas. Finally he settled for laying them on his chair, but that meant he now had nowhere to sit. He began to pace the floor.

Molly repressed a smile. "Sherlock, why do you care about playing for your sister so much?"

Sherlock paused in his random wandering with his back to them, which made it easier to give the answer. He did notice his fingers twitching, looking for his violin at such a moment. Interesting.

"I of all people know how intelligence can isolate. I know what it's like to feel alone in the clouds." He turned to face them. "I don't…have that problem as much anymore." He smiled at them briefly. "But I can't leave my sister alone in it. Especially when she's already been there most of her life."

Molly blinked rapidly. John looked thoroughly ashamed. He cleared his throat. "I see. Well then, good luck to you both." He made a wide gesture to the stairs. "I should get Rosie, tell Mrs. Hudson it's a false alarm." His gaze flicked between Molly and Sherlock. "You two…stay and talk."

John was almost out the door when he returned and leaned back in, speaking to Sherlock. "For the record, the reason Harry is not in my life is because no matter what, she always chose the drink over all the people in her life that cared about her. Every time. It's too much. That's why I was almost done with you too last time, among other…reasons."

Sherlock acknowledged that statement with a nod. John cleared his throat and continued. "So I'm sorry if I'm a bit worried about you backsliding," there was a halting pause, "but hearing this…this is…good. Good job, Sherlock." He and Sherlock each smiled slightly. "Good job." He beat a hasty retreat down the stairs.

Sherlock and Molly both smiled awkwardly at each other. The confrontation had broken much of the ice, but it was still uncomfortable when every silence seemed to echo their last phone call back to them.

Sherlock made a small gesture toward John's chair. "You're welcome to sit. If you like."

"Okay," she moved toward the chair. "but only if you do." She waited until Sherlock had approached his own chair and picked up his violin and bow. They both sat down, Molly with her hands still on her lap, Sherlock with his violin and bow lax in his hands.

The silence was about to become unbearable when Sherlock suddenly sat forward, making Molly start. "Sorry, but what information did you have for me? Your first text said you had some."

"Oh, that." Molly drew a deep breath. "I thought you should know that I have positively identified the remains John found in the well as Victor Trevor." Molly's eyes were soft with sympathy.

A discordant note sounded from Sherlock's violin as his fingers gripped the neck involuntarily. He swallowed hard, his eyes glimmering. He'd known it, he'd already known it. But that didn't make it easier to hear.

"I see. Thank you, Molly. I would trust Victor to no other pathologist." He attempted a wobbly smile that mirrored hers.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" The words emerged before she remembered thinking them.

"No, I'll be fine—wait actually…"

"Yes?"

He slid forward a bit more in his chair. She did the same. His voice was low and quiet. "I suppose Victor's parents will be notified and they'll most likely have a small burial for him?"

"Probably, yes, but it's their choice." Molly had not seen this level of vulnerability in him in a very long time. Not since Moriarty.

"When the time comes, if the time comes…would you go with me?"

His eyes were pleading with her, and she never could refuse that. "Of course, but John—"

"—has plenty on his plate and Rosie to look after. I would like you to come. If you're so inclined, of course." He averted his eyes. He clearly wanted her to know it was her option, not a guilt trip. That was what made up her mind.

"Of course, Sherlock. Of course." She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it was tinged with sadness at the cause of such a request.

His shoulders seemed to lower inches as he let his violin rest across his lap and reached for her hand. He laid his on top of hers and stared into her eyes. "Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome." Almost against her will, her thumb briefly stroked one of his fingers and then fell away as she stood up. He followed suit, still holding his violin.

She was almost out the door when a thought occurred. She turned back. "Sherlock, you said your sister is beyond communication."

His brows drew together, sensing the question. She said it anyway. "Is it working?"

"Too soon to tell, I'm afraid." He smiled briefly at her. "But there are promising signs. I have hope."

She nodded. "That's good. Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight Molly." He watched her depart and sat back down in his chair, fingers drifting absently over the wood as he thought back on the day's session.

* * *

 _He left early, unable to sleep much due to thoughts of another visit. After an early morning text to Mycroft and a stop at a shop for some breakfast, he had boarded the helicopter and headed out. He silenced his phone as it was too much of a distraction._

 _Eurus was sitting in the same place she had been the first time. As before, she didn't move when he entered. This time he didn't hesitate, just pulled out his violin, tuned it, and began playing._

 _It was a different conversation this time even though was the same melody as before. It was the same music and the same improvisation that depended on what Sherlock wanted to convey. But it was ultimately still the melody Eurus had been playing the first time Sherlock visited Sherrinford when he had come through in disguise. The guards with their headphones had said it would kill you in the end, but even then Sherlock had thought it was beautiful._

 _Eurus had insisted he play "him" for her, and he was sure that this melody was "her". This was Eurus, and she had been calling out for a very long time. He was sure it might be the only way to speak her language at this time._

 _So he started this conversation with her song, a brotherly greeting that inquired about her well being. He told her about his flat getting fixed up, actually changing a diaper, the case the night before that was really just a four but better than nothing._

 _He lost track of time, following a stream of consciousness of communication as he played. Did Eurus remember the time Mycroft fell into the stream? They had laughed so hard at his soggy clothes and displeased face. Did she ever wonder when the path you were following became fixed? He did. He also remembered all her pleas for him to play with her, but he'd been so busy playing pirate with Victor. He'd had no idea…_

 _He was semi-conscious of an ache in his elbow and wrist, a certain indicator that he'd been playing for a long period of time when she suddenly stood up._

 _He froze, reflexively checking to make sure there was actually glass in place, and watched her as she moved to the back of the cell and turned to face him. He studied her face, looking for signs of malice or contrivance, but she just stood there. She was watching him now. They were sizing each other up. Each was feeling vulnerable and even a bit exposed being seen so clearly, but neither was willing to end it._

 _After a few tense moments, Sherlock could see from her face that she wanted him to continue. He braced himself against the discomfort of being watched now and began playing again, glancing up frequently to watch her for reaction. It was new and disquieting to have eye contact. It made each of them that much more vulnerable than before. But it was also a step in the right direction. Her face was lacking that hard edge she'd had the first time he ever visited. She resembled more the sister he'd held in the decimated remains of their family home. He didn't realize his own face was softening too, reaching out with eyes as well as song. She stood completely still, not wavering or shifting, and he had to admire her control over each muscle. But that had been developed over years in prison with nothing else to do but learn control, and it wasn't worth the trade Sherlock could see that now. Sherlock allowed his eyes and his bow to communicate just how much he cared about what happened to her. She didn't smile, but her eyes drank up every molecule of caring she could pull from him._

 _He didn't want to stop, even though he had surely been playing for hours now. He didn't want to let her down or make her feel abandoned after such a move. So he played on._

 _After recounting several stories, including the one about John's wedding and preventing a murder there, he cast about in his mind for something else to talk about. Eurus was still standing, still listening and watching. Sherlock rambled on._

 _Again, his mind came back to Molly, as it always did nowadays. He told his sister about Molly and the day they'd spent solving cases together. The rock that had suddenly materialized in his chest when he saw her engagement ring. He'd told himself it was for the best. He wasn't cut out for that. He wasn't worthy of that. He would only cause her pain. Was it so obvious that his sister could pinpoint it from her secret prison? Was he that far gone? Molly had been a constant in his life for a very long time and in the beginning he had quickly brushed away any idea of romantic attachment with her, despite her clear interest. Looking back, he could see how his immediate and total rejection of anyone she dated was a sign of his interest, but at the time he had told himself he was being smart._

 _It was only after she helped him fake his death and he was gone for two years that he had wondered if perhaps there could be something more. But when he returned, she was engaged. So he held himself in and let her go. She deserved to be happy, and surely Tom would be better at it than him. Wouldn't he? And Sherlock wasn't suited to that life, not as a high-functioning sociopath.  
_

 _He told Eurus about Molly slapping his face, and how even deep in his high junkie mind he had been absurdly delighted to see she was no longer wearing a ring. How was it so obvious that even John missed it but Eurus nailed it? How could she know he'd sat up nights picturing her, thinking about her, how much he respected her mind and her strength? How could Eurus see it so well she could engineer an experiment to make Molly say "I love you", and in turn slap Sherlock in the face with the knowledge that he loved her, had loved her, as long as he'd known her? He loved Molly Hooper, and now that his mind was open and he wasn't trying to crush all emotion in himself he had to admit he wanted more. He wanted her. He wanted Molly Hooper. Molly with her morgue jokes and her sweaters, her keen mind and her open, giving heart. He was very worried about just causing her more pain, but he couldn't deny he wanted Molly Hooper in every part of his life…_

 _Sherlock realized he had closed his eyes the more he talked about Molly and he was picturing her now. He was two seconds away from a blissful, day dreamy smile and a love song._

 _His eyes snapped open, his bow went still. He suddenly felt exceedingly vulnerable. He hadn't meant to go this far in telling Eurus this. His eyes found hers across the empty space between them, instantly on guard and defensive._

 _Eurus was leaning against the back wall, having shifted ever so slightly to rest her back on it. It was the only indication that she was more relaxed. That and the look on her face. It had nothing of domination or self-satisfaction, no hunter's intense readiness to pounce. She looked…moved. Her eyes were soft, and he couldn't be sure from such a distance but it was possible she even had a bright sheen of moisture in them. She had a yearning look about her, a wistful desire. Her lips almost wavered in a smile. Sherlock's forehead creased as he looked at her face again and he realized this was the exact same look she'd had on her face after the phone call with Molly. After he had murmured "I love you" sincerely, and Molly had whispered it back as he begged her to. That split second before he'd announced that he'd won and she should play fair._

 _If anything, it looked like Eurus was happy that Sherlock felt such a way for anyone. Sherlock's body relaxed too and he cleared his throat briefly. He gave her a nod of thanks before resuming his play. He told her he must leave for now but he'd be back soon, and he was looking forward to it._

 _Her own look said the same but he could read the worry in her eyes that he was giving her empty words. Sherlock put his violin back under his chin and raised his bow._

 _"_ _I will be back, Eurus. I promise." The notes rang clear and strong._

 _She nodded; a movement so small it was almost imperceptible._

 _Sherlock gave her a brief smile before packing up. He ignored his aching joints as he let himself out and wondered if it had been so long that the helicopter pilot had given up and left. He wasn't in the mood to wait for it to return. Surely the pilot would apologize over and over and annoy Sherlock to death. Sherlock didn't want the distraction. He had some serious thinking to do._

* * *

 _ **Next chapter will be up early next week if all goes well. :) Thank you!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Sorry it took a week to get this out,_** ** _ ** _life keeps stealing away my writing time_**. It is a whopper of a feels trip, beware! Hope you enjoy it. :)_ **

Sherlock paused to make a note on the sheet music that stood on his new music stand, throwing a glare at the closed door of his bedroom and more specifically at the noise beyond. Mrs. Hudson and several workers were busy cleaning and repairing the main room. From the sound of it they had brought a herd of elephants or possibly a circus with them. Heavy boots moved up and down the staircase incessantly, making it very difficult to concentrate. Sherlock raised his violin again and repeated the line he'd just composed to see if it sounded just right.

A crash and an oath sounded from somewhere near the kitchen, followed by the shrill tones of his landlady. Sherlock gritted his teeth around his own oath and laid his instrument on the bed. He tucked the incomplete music sheets into a dresser drawer and swept out to view the restoration progress, his dressing gown flapping behind him.

Mrs. Hudson sang a cheerful greeting at him but it didn't deter his frown and a request for tea. She bustled about the kitchen as he leaned on the fridge with his arms crossed, frowning at the front room and the myriad of workers in it. Bags of burned refuse were being carted out, the ruined rug was being rolled up, and charred wallpaper was being stripped from the walls. Sherlock's bad mood remained.

"What monstrous wallpaper do you plan to replace that with? Please don't say flowers." His gaze returned to Mrs. Hudson, who was just sliding a teacup and saucer onto the counter near his elbow.

Mrs. Hudson beamed. "Absolutely no flowers! When I bought this place there were quite a few rolls of extra wallpaper in one of the closets. I'm just glad I hung on to them."

Sherlock's cross mood lightened somewhat. "You mean the walls will look the same?"

She gave him a fond look. "Almost exactly the same! Except for that horrible spray paint and all the bullet holes, I'll have the boys patch those before they put up new paper." She immediately noted his returning scowl. "Oh Sherlock, not everything can be exactly the same as it was, you know. As it is a few furniture pieces will have to go, and of course so many of your things were ruined. But I think we can save the rug after the boys fix it up, the mantel just needs sanding and refinishing, and of course your chairs are good as new. Or as close as they can get to it, really." She patted his shoulder and moved into the living room, chastising several workmen for their lack of care.

After finishing his cup of tea Sherlock shed his dressing gown and put on his suit coat, though after that he wasn't quite sure what to do. The noise level still prevented him from composing, and he certainly couldn't relax with all the work going on around him. Also, he had far less books to read than he once had. He sat in his chair and ignored the workers around him as he pulled out his phone. He checked his inbox hoping for a good case, and was scrolling through when John entered.

"Good morning John, is Rosie downstairs?"

"She's with friends for a bit. I was hoping…" his voice trailed off as he realized Sherlock was intently staring at his phone, which always meant he was thinking as he viewed possible cases. "Oh good, I'd love a good case."

"Hmmm, as would I," Sherlock was still scrolling intently. John moved to lean on the mantel as he waited. Mrs. Hudson came back in and smiled to see John there before going to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea too.

"Anything?" John was trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably.

Sherlock didn't look up. "I refuse to lower my standards so far as to take a case involving a stolen bicycle, I don't care how slow things are."

"You never know, it might lead to an amazing case of industrial espionage." John checked his watch. "But it really can't, I have to pick up Rosie by three. Something short if at all possible please."

"I'm not even certain I'm going to find anything." As if on cue, Sherlock's words were punctuated by a text alert. Sherlock only looked at it because he saw who it was from. It was Greg.

NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

Sherlock's hopes rose. Maybe it was a case, a good one. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.

"Greg's coming; maybe he has something good for us."

"Oh great," John brightened up and went to the kitchen for his tea.

Twenty minutes later Greg trudged up the stairs and poked his head into 221B. "Hey, looks like the place will be back together again soon, eh?"

Sherlock already had his fingertips together, still in his chair. "Yes, it will. What do you have for us, Greg?"

Greg quickly hid his pleased look and looked over at John, who was just entering from the kitchen. He cleared his throat. "Well, I do have something but before we get to that I wanted to tell you that yesterday we informed Victor Trevor's parents that we found his remains."

Sherlock's gaze didn't move from the spot on the floor that had his attention, but his hands dropped into his lap. "How did they…take it?"

"Well," Greg rubbed the back of his neck "they've known for years he must be dead, but they still took it pretty hard. It's not anything a parent wants to hear." He shared a look with John and they both looked at Sherlock who hadn't moved one bit. He was still sitting in his chair with his legs crossed, still staring at the floor.

"Will they bury him?"

Greg's brows drew together. "Well of course they will it's required. That or cremation, but I think they'll bury him. I don't think they can handle the thought of the other option."

Sherlock's head rose sharply. "Please keep me informed of that."

"Yeah, sure I will." It was clear Greg wouldn't think of doing anything else. Sherlock nodded his appreciation and brought his hands back up, fingertips touching again. Greg took that to mean it was time to move off of that particular subject. "Right, so anyway I have a case that's a bit of a puzzle."

Both Sherlock and John perked up. John pulled up the extra chair for Greg and seated himself in his own, pulling out a pen and his notebook. Greg pulled out his own notes.

"It's a missing person case, and you'll love this. It doesn't make any sense."

"Perfect," breathed Sherlock. He closed his eyes and waited for Greg to relate the facts.

* * *

Once Greg had filled them in and after Sherlock went to his desk and triumphantly unearthed his deerstalker from a drawer, Sherlock and John headed out to interview the wife of the missing man. She was a middle-aged woman who ran an antique shop on the south side of London. The woman led them through to the back of the store, past shelves loaded with antiques and furniture with price tags. Sherlock was busy taking in extra details as usual, John was just happy to be chasing a case that didn't promise death around every corner. He did peek at his watch and wonder how Rosie was doing, though.

Mrs. Claymont ushered them to her office and sat at her desk, pushing aside piles of files, crumpled tissues and scribbled bits of paper. She was clearly not handling her husband's disappearance well.

"Mrs. Claymont, I am sorry to hear about your husband's disappearance, I will do my utmost to return him to you." Sherlock's voice was deep and reassuring.

John gave him a startled look. Rarely had he heard Sherlock speak to a client in such a way. Usually it was to get some kind of result, but this time it really seemed sincere. Still, he'd once been convinced Sherlock was asking Janine to marry him, so he'd reserve judgment until he was sure.

Mrs. Claymont sniffled into yet another tissue. "Thank you Mr. Holmes."

"Now, I know you've given your story to the police, but why don't you take us through it again?" Sherlock gave her an encouraging look.

"Well, I was on my way into a business building to see about purchasing some pieces from a contact who had called." Sherlock nodded. "My cab driver was about to let me out when we were rear ended by some old man behind us. No major injuries, just a fender bender." Sherlock nodded. "The cab driver and the old man were arguing but I was going to pay and go inside. I was just getting out of the cab, and I thought I heard someone shout. I looked up and I saw someone I was sure was my husband just inside the third story window. That building only goes up three floors. Andrew should have been at work but I was sure it was him. I rushed in to see him but he wasn't there. I found the window looking down where I had been, it was in the hallway across from the water closets and all the other offices on that floor were closed, they open later. I asked around in the lobby no one knew my husband. I was starting to think I had been wrong even though I was so sure it was Andrew I saw. A police officer had come to deal with the accident as I was leaving and asked why I was so upset, so I told him. As I was describing the incident I saw a tramp, a homeless man trying to slink out the main doors and he had a filthy ragged bag with him. But I saw the sleeve of my husband's special jumper just barely peeking out. I recognized it immediately because I bought it for his birthday a year ago and Andrew was wearing it that morning. The officer detained the man and when he searched his bag he also found Andrew's keys and wallet and his pants. We searched the building, every office space, every closet and rest room, and no trace of my husband. The tramp must have robbed him. The police arrested him and interviewed him but he won't utter a word, he won't tell us where Andrew is. He just stares at the wall. That was two days ago! Mr. Holmes, I am very scared my husband has been a victim of foul play." Mrs. Claymont's eyes welled with tears again.

Sherlock leaned forward to make eye contact with the woman. "Don't give up hope now, Mrs. Claymont. I'll do my best for him. May I ask you just a few more questions?" His tone remained gentle and soothing. John had stopped taking notes and was looking between them warily, clearly expecting some sort of deception.

She sniffled. "Of course."

"What else was in the vagrant's bag with your husband's possessions?"

"Not much. His begging bowl and a sign asking for a donation."

"Nothing else?"

"No. Nothing."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "Has your husband been acting strangely at all lately?"

"Well, he has been very stressed about our finances. He has his job, I own this shop but the antiques business has been slow. We have debt but we had some savings put away. Lately I've noticed he has been withdrawing large amounts from it, and I don't know what for."

"What do you think it's for?"

"I don't know. But I worry it's a—" her voice suddenly cut off and she began weeping all over again.

"Another woman?" Sherlock filled in gently. She could only nod. John shifted in his chair. "Rest assured, I don't think it's that Mrs. Claymont."

"Could also be drugs or gambling," John supplied helpfully. Sherlock gave him a look of reprimand, nodding slightly toward the still weeping woman. John gaped. Had Sherlock Holmes just reproved _him_ for being insensitive?

Sherlock turned back to Mrs. Claymont and asked about her husband's background and education.

The interview concluded smoothly, and Sherlock again reassured her before they left. John kept blinking in surprise.

They were on their way out when Sherlock came to a sudden stop. He looked deep in thought. John looked around them, trying to figure out what had caught his attention so fully.

"Sherlock? What?"

Sherlock pointed. "What do you think of this chair?"

John focused on the particular piece Sherlock was pointing at. "It's…a chair."

"Yeees…" Sherlock drew out the word, clearly unsatisfied.

"It's…yellow…looks comfortable…" John stared at the upholstery and decorative wood frame, searching for some kind of clue he had missed that Sherlock must have caught. "I don't know." He was feeling very stupid, and not for the first time.

But Sherlock was nodding. "It does look comfortable doesn't it? I especially like the color. It's cheery."

John's brain jammed. "Wait…what?"

Sherlock nodded again, decided. "Yes. I'll take it." He marched to the front register. "Excuse me; I'd like to purchase that yellow chair. Do you deliver?"

Thoroughly befuddled, John followed in his wake.

The cab ride across town was silent for the first few minutes. John was still mulling over what had just happened, while Sherlock was looking at the picture he'd taken of his new acquisition and looking quite pleased. He had also removed his deerstalker and laid it aside for the moment.

Finally John admitted defeat. "Okay, fine. Go ahead and tell me. Why did you buy that chair? Does the wife have something to do with her husband's disappearance? Does the chair?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be absurd, of course not. Red-rimmed eyes, lack of sleep, abundant tissue use. That and her suspicion another woman might be involved clearly points to her knowing nothing about her husband's disappearance. She's beside herself with worry. No doubt she believes he may be dead. Poor woman."

"I'm sorry, poor woman?" John stared at his best friend as if he had suddenly begun speaking in tongues.

Sherlock was now searching the internet on his phone. "Mmm, yes. Must be a terrible thing to fear that someone you care about has been killed. That they might never come home." His eyes flicked up to John for a moment, aware that John was now swallowing thickly as they thought about their own losses. "It's not something to wish on others, is it?"

John nodded. "Of course. Yeah. Wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"Quite right." Sherlock looked back to his phone. John waited expectantly for several moments before finally pointing out that Sherlock hadn't addressed the other question.

"Why, exactly, did you buy the chair?"

"Baker Street needs a few new furniture pieces. I thought this one would fit in well." Sherlock was studying his phone intently.

John opened his mouth to press further but on second thought decided it just might be something he didn't want to know. He looked out his window. "Okay. Where are we going?"

"To find Mr. Claymont and inform him his wife deserves better." Sherlock put his deerstalker back on and checked to make sure his collar was up. John rolled his eyes.

The cab left them at the police station, where Sherlock promptly pulled off the vagrant's false hair and beard, exposing him as Mr. Claymont. It seemed Mr. Claymont had lost his job almost six months ago and had not been able to tell his wife. Ashamed, he had been using his work days to beg for money in town, using anything he earned in an attempt to offset their growing financial troubles as he liquefied all his other assets to keep them above water. He had just been going to change into his costume when a traffic disturbance led him to look out the window. Seeing his wife had caused him to shout in surprise. He had immediately realized his mistake, rushed to change, and tried to exit without being noticed. Once he was detained and facing his wife, shame had caused him to stay in his disguise rather than tell the truth.

Greg had promptly told Mr. Claymont off for wasting police time and almost getting arrested for killing himself, but the sting was lessened slightly when Sherlock told him he had purchased a chair from his wife's shop. John, however, put a finger in his face and told him to be truthful to his wife about everything from now on.

Overall Sherlock rated it a 6, but both he and John agreed it had been a nice way to pass the day. They were also done in time for John to collect Rosie.

* * *

A few days later Molly received a text.

GREG HAS INFORMED ME THAT VICTOR TREVOR'S FUNERAL WILL BE TOMORROW AT 2PM. ARE YOU ABLE TO JOIN ME?

Molly chewed her lower lip as she thought about it. She was still perfectly willing, but now that she had had time to think things over she realized there was really only one thing to be done if she wanted to preserve their friendship. She picked up her phone.

YES, IF YOU WILL STICK TO ONE RULE FOR ME. I DON'T EVER WANT TO DISCUSS THAT PHONE CALL AGAIN. WE FORGET IT EVER HAPPENED.

She pushed send with a decisive nod. This was her one condition, the one thing she needed if she was going to continue to associate with Sherlock. It had to happen, or this wasn't going to work. She deserved to be able to have her feelings and keep them to herself without them being pushed in her face or dragged out of her for all to see. She didn't want to discuss it; she didn't want to be reminded. She couldn't give on this. Her friendship meant enough that she really wanted to keep it, but it had to be on her terms.

Still, she anxiously watched her phone for a return text hoping Sherlock would comply. It took longer than she thought it would.

ARE YOU SURE? I THINK PERHAPS WE SHOULD DISCUSS IT AT LEAST ONCE.

Iron resolve settled over her mind. This wasn't an ear or letting him see a body for a case. This was about her well being.

NO. I WILL NOT GIVE ON THIS. PLEASE AGREE SO WE CAN MOVE ON.

Seconds, then minutes passed by as she held her phone. Finally he answered.

OKAY. IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WISH.

She breathed a deep sigh of relief, glad that their friendship wasn't completely lost.

THANK YOU. WHERE SHOULD WE MEET?

* * *

OUR PARENTS ARE ASKING FOR AN UPDATE –MH

Sherlock frowned at his phone. His last visit to Sherrinford had been almost exactly like the one previous. This time Eurus had stood up almost immediately at his entrance and moved to lean against the wall. He had played face to face the entire time and could have sworn she looked less removed. But in the end, she hadn't moved to communicate in anything other than eye contact. He had once more promised to return.

TELL THEM PATIENCE. IT'S NOT YET TIME. -SH

WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS TODAY? –MH

Sherlock's frown stayed in place. He was in fact about to leave to call a cab, first to Molly's flat and then the cemetery. He was already on edge and didn't need to be grilled.

NOTHING OF CONSEQUENCE. –SH

He had pocketed his phone and was putting on his coat when the reply pinged.

I'M SURE. DON'T TRIP ON A HEADSTONE.-MH

Sherlock gritted his teeth and headed downstairs. At the front door to Baker Street he paused with his hand on the doorknob, taking a much needed steadying breath.

"Once more into the fray…"

The words whispered out of him as he stood with eyes closed. Then he opened them, pulled open the door, and stepped outside.

* * *

Molly was waiting by her front door when he pulled up. He stepped out to greet her and held the cab door open for her to slide in first. Once he was also seated the cab jolted into motion again.

Sherlock clasped his gloved hands in his lap and mulled over what to say. Molly looked very nice, though he realized how much he missed the typical bright colors she chose now that her funeral appropriate dark dress and black jumper were clearly lacking them. He hadn't noticed how she brightened his life. Interesting. Still, he had no idea how to put that into actual words.

"You look…good." Sherlock nodded her way, keeping his face neutral to avoid showing his annoyance at himself. Not even close to what he wanted to say, he didn't need John to tell him that.

"Thank you," Molly smoothed her skirt and crossed her legs. She felt she did look good.

Sherlock wracked his brains. "Thank you for coming with me." It took monumental will not to bring up the phone call, the one thing he really wanted to talk about with her.

"You're welcome." She was so glad he had agreed not to talk about the phone call. Now she didn't have to be on edge.

They nodded at each other for a few seconds before Molly came up with something to say. "So, Victor was your friend?"

"My best friend, yes." Sherlock's mouth curved slightly. "We played pirates together."

Molly smiled at the idea of Sherlock as a boy, but then the mood in the cab shifted as the memory of the waterlogged sword came back to her. Molly's smile faded. She gave Sherlock a searching look.

"Did Eurus really push him down a well?"

Sherlock nodded. "She wanted me to play with her. I don't know if she meant to hurt him or not. It's possible she expected me to solve the riddle she gave me in time. But I didn't."

"You were young."

"I was slow."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Hmmm," his tone clearly conveyed his doubt on that point, even if he didn't put it in words. The rest of the ride was quiet.

The cab pulled up to the cemetery. Molly gave Sherlock a concerned look as they got out and arranged for the driver to wait for them, but he seemed quite composed. They began walking toward the back of the cemetery toward the few cars that could be seen lined up along the small road. Rows of trees were softly swaying in the breeze and it would have been a lovely stroll if not for the reason they were there.

To bury Victor.

The closer they came to the gravesite the more Sherlock could make out certain people. His eyes swept the crowd, automatically looking for anything out of place. A tall dark silhouette could be made out on the far side of the group assembled. Sherlock felt as if his senses were all heightened. His steps seemed to thud in his ears, dull and plodding, until he realized it was perfectly in time with his pulse. The sunny sky faded to gray, and his range of vision narrowed down further and further until it was a pinpoint with only one thing visible.

"Broken earth." He didn't realize he had come to a halt until the words emerged from his mouth. His voice was raspy and unsteady.

"Sherlock?" Molly had halted too and was staring at him in concern. He pointed at the nearest gravestone.

"The grass is disturbed at this particular gravestone, but the date of death is five years ago. Why is the earth disturbed then? The line follows the outline of the grave and then stops, perhaps someone was interrupted in their attempt to graverob—"

"Sherlock." Molly's hand was on his arm now, pulling it down from its pointing position. She looked up into his face, noting the slightly manic look as he searched for more possible clues. "Sherlock it's okay. You don't have to do this alone." His eyes met hers in confusion, and she waited for the words to sink in. She only continued when realization began to dawn. "That line of disturbed earth is a sprinkler line they must have fixed, look." She pointed at the break in the grass and how the perfect line fed to the next sprinkler head and the next beyond that.

His brows knitted in confusion as he mulled it over. When the truth hit, he straightened up and ran a hand over his face. He was turning to logic over emotion, avoiding this turmoil in the way he always had. He looked at the line of sprinklers again and acknowledged that Molly was right. This was just him attempting to cope with reality, or failing at it.

His eyes flicked to Molly who was still concerned, still holding his arm and waiting for him to come to terms with what she had said. It continued to amaze him how she always managed to see him. John would have protested but still would have gone along with his diverting tactic. Perhaps Sherlock had realized it and that was why he had asked her to come instead. He should have felt exposed and vulnerable to have her see him like that, but he hadn't been lying the day he told her he had always trusted her. Even now, it was more comforting than threatening for her to see him like she did.

He cleared his throat.

"Yes, you're right. Well spotted."

Her look didn't change. "Are you okay?" Her eyes clearly told him not to just say that he was, so instead he didn't say anything. He just bowed his head and began walking again. Molly fell into step with him until they were still a few rows away near a line of trees, and Sherlock stopped again. Molly peered up at him.

"Sherlock?" He seemed to be gaining more composure, but he made no move to go further. Molly realized they were partially hidden behind a tree and began to suspect that Sherlock had never intended to go all the way to the actual grave. "Sherlock, you can do this. You can." Her hand was on his arm again, exerting a gentle pressure.

Sherlock looked out to the newly dug plot. He could recognize Victor's parents, even from a distance. They were older now but he could still see in them the years from his childhood. He swallowed and looked down, eyes scanning the grass once more for a less upsetting place to look. Eventually his gaze fell on Molly's hand still on his arm. He felt like he could spin away on a breeze, like he was high and hallucinating. Dealing with feelings made him feel much more fragile than the cold hard embrace of logic ever had. But that small hand touching his arm seemed to be enough to get him through. He took a few moments to steady himself.

Finally he looked up and offered Molly his elbow. She gave him a tiny reassuring smile and slid her arm through his. They walked the last part of the journey together, though Sherlock felt that her arm held him on the ground instead of spinning off into chaos. Molly's hand was the tether he needed to keep him in place.

They joined the small group of mourners as a brief service began. Victor's parents had held a funeral for Victor after it became clear he was lost to them, so this one was less of a proper funeral and more laying Victor to rest finally. Sherlock could now recall that he had refused to go to the funeral as a boy. After that he had always referred to Victor as Redbeard, and his memories had begun to rewrite themselves without him even realizing what he was doing.

Molly kept her arm through Sherlock's as they listened to several speakers from Victor's family. Sherlock appeared to be unruffled on the surface, but she could feel the muscles of his arm tighten and relax sporadically. He was clenching and unclenching his fist. Molly pushed away the thought that it had been far too short a time period since she'd attended a burial and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

At long last, Victor's small coffin was lowered into the ground. The workers began to fill in the dirt and the small group started to quietly converse with each other.

Even through the haze of memories and guilt, Sherlock could feel that Molly's arm had tensed around his as well. Sherlock's own arm was like stone as he made to leave. Molly pulled back on his arm and brought him back the same step he'd made to leave. He frowned down at her. She gave him a determined look and a low whisper.

"You need to say something to his parents."

"No," his voice was implacable. "No I don't."

"Yes you do. You won't have another chance, you need to have as much closure as you can get." Her voice hadn't risen above her quiet whisper, but he could still hear the steely thread running through it. He also knew she was right. It was clear rewriting his memories had done nothing to achieve closure, this event had haunted his life ever since. It had slid in and out of his conscious mind, dictating how he handled life and the choices he made. He briefly closed his eyes in defeat and allowed Molly to lead him around to Victor's parents.

They peered up at him for a moment once they saw him coming, and Sherlock could read the recognition in their eyes.

Mrs. Trevor spoke first.

"Sherlock, look how you've grown," she stared at him and tried to smile. But he knew she was trying to picture Victor at such an age.

"Mr. and Mrs. Trevor…I'm…sorry…" He could barely make the words emerge.

"For what? It wasn't you. You didn't do anything."

Mr. Trevor's voice had a slight edge to it, and Sherlock wondered how much they knew about Eurus' role in Victor's death or if they thought it had just been an accident. He hadn't been around for much of the interactions between his parents and the Trevor's after Victor went missing. He had been too busy frantically searching the great expanse of grounds that surrounded Musgrave Hall. He had been too busy digging under the beech tree…

He had been too slow.

"That's why I'm sorry."

Mrs. Trevor shook her head. "It's all right Sherlock, you did nothing wrong." She moved to hug him. He accepted it, stiff as a board, unable to return it, but allowing her to imagine hugging her son this way. It was the least he could do.

When she stepped back, she peered into his face. "I know you were a great friend to Victor."

"He was my best friend."

"He loved playing with you. We buried him with his pirate sword." Tears were starting to slide down her face. Sherlock realized she looked blurry to him. Molly had slid her arm from his when Mrs. Trevor had hugged him, but now she laid it on his upper arm.

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm sorry…you lost your son." He offered his gloved hand to Mr. Trevor.

Mr. Trevor grasped it with both of his own. "I'm sorry you lost your friend. Best wishes, Sherlock."

"Same to you." Sherlock offered his arm to Molly again. He was sure that he would need it. Immediately she slipped her arm back into his and they turned to go back after a final nod to Victor's parents.

Molly was wiping her eyes as they walked, and Sherlock was grateful for that as they moved past the lone figure that had remained on the outskirts of the group, twenty feet away and half hidden behind a tree. Tall and dark in his black coat, an umbrella was clutched in his gloved hands and his expression was somber and worried.

Sherlock exchanged a look with Mycroft as they passed. Thanks and concern passed between them in equal measure, and then both turned to go their separate ways.

* * *

The drive was silent for several minutes as Sherlock tried to get his emotions under control. Once he managed to he looked over at Molly. She was turned toward her own window, shoulders rounded, staring sightlessly at the passing city.

Sherlock's brows came together in concern. Perhaps it was his own newly experienced grief that enabled him to recognize it in her, or perhaps he was finally beginning to emerge from his self absorbed state of mind. But he could see it clear as day, Molly was hurting too. The burial had upset her more than he would expect for someone who had only accompanied her friend there as support. She was clearly trying to keep herself from getting even more emotional.

He realized he'd seen this same look on her face before as well, that day at Sherrinford when Eurus had forced him to call her. The next words popped out before he thought it through.

"Why were you having a bad day?"

"What?" Molly looked his way, her confusion transparent.

"That day…" The flash of anger in her eyes as she suddenly realized what day he was referring to made him quickly tiptoe around the subject of the actual phone call and choose his words very carefully "You were already upset. You said you weren't having a good day. What happened?"

She gave him an uncomprehending look of frustration. "Why do you care about that?"

"You're always asking about me. I want to ask about you." It was true, he realized. He wanted to know because suddenly it mattered to him. He cared about what she was feeling.

If he had been questioning her as a detective, she'd have told him to go to hell. But he looked truly concerned, as a friend. Molly sniffed and cleared her throat.

"I was at the lab and received a new case. Car accident, DOA. It was something I've done a thousand times." Sherlock nodded to show he understood. Molly didn't usually spend time weeping over her cases. She was more practical than that. Molly continued. "But this one was younger than most postmortems I get, female, blond hair…a mother to three and the youngest is two…" her voice broke off as tears rose again.

Sherlock had already put together why this particular case had bothered her so much. "She reminded you of Mary."

Molly nodded, tears seeping from her closed lids, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

Sherlock stared. It was as if suddenly a veil was pulled from before his eyes. He could see her so clearly. Molly Hooper, the friend to all and the one who steps in to help however needed. Molly Hooper, who was always trying to be strong for everyone else, who always held it together while everyone else fell apart, never asking for emotional support for herself. But Sherlock could feel her pain as acutely as any he had ever felt personally.

She was pulled into her own space, physically and emotionally closing up tightly. To Sherlock the car seat suddenly became a yawning chasm between them, growing ever wider. Molly Hooper was drifting further away. He reached out to stop her. His hand gently touched her shoulder.

It was as if he had melted a wall. Instantly Molly turned his way and buried her face into the front of his Belstaff, trying to stifle the sobs that welled up inside her. Sherlock froze only for a second before he put his arms around her, trying to comfort her. They stayed that way, still but for the jostling of the cab, until eventually words began to form and spill out. Sherlock did nothing to stop them and let her talk.

"I miss her, Sherlock. She was such a good friend to me…she was so wonderful…she'd let me come over and see her anytime, drink tea and talk with me and when Rosie came it was even better…she made me feel welcome and we laughed and talked about life and you and John and I miss her so much…and now Rosie has to grow up without her and she'll never know how wonderful her mother was…Rosie deserves her mum..."

Sherlock said nothing. He understood her grief perfectly but didn't want to interrupt. This wasn't about him, and Molly needed someone to listen. His experience with Eurus had taught him that much. People needed to be heard.

Eventually Molly's sobs subsided. She abruptly became aware of her surroundings and who she was crying on. Her head lifted slightly.

"I'm sorry. I got your coat all wet."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I have recently learned that we all have emotions and it's no use fighting them."

She gave a sniffle of a laugh. "Oh? Even you?"

Sherlock looked down at the top of her head, at the sleek brown hair drawn into a simple but elegant bun, and breathed in the smell of her shampoo. He looked at his arm, extended to wrap round her shoulders so naturally as if it had always yearned to be there. He heaved a silent sigh.

"Even me."

* * *

 _ **The case of Mr. Claymont's disappearance was shamelessly lifted from Arthur Conan Doyle's original story The Man with the Twisted Lip. It was one of the first Sherlock Holmes stories I ever read and it stuck with me. I don't own that. Thanks for all the reviews and support, they are greatly appreciated. :) The next chapter will have a Eurus visit and hopefully be up by the middle of next week.** _


	5. Chapter 5

**_It seems Friday is becoming my update day, but at least it's regular. Thanks for all your reviews and support. They keep me going! :)_ **

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock exited the helicopter and strode across the landing pad. He used his access card to enter, strolling past the armed guards with his customary black bag. They were now used to his frequent comings and goings, besides a quick glance to confirm his identity they barely acknowledged him. That was fine; he liked it better that way.

He moved to the elevator and used his access card again, then stood inside and pushed the correct button. He allowed his mind to wander as he slowly descended, thinking back on the funeral the day before.

 _Shortly after Molly had stopped crying the cab pulled up in front of her flat. She thanked Sherlock for his kindness and quickly exited the cab. He scrambled out in her wake, anxious to talk to her before she disappeared inside._

 _"Molly?"_

 _She turned back on the doorstep, one hand still on the door handle, and waited for him to speak. He mouthed wordlessly for a moment and cleared his throat._

 _"Umm, thank you too. I don't think I could have done this without you."_

 _Molly felt her rush to get inside abate somewhat. She gave him a small smile. "It's okay. I was glad to do it." She repressed the urge to clarify she wasn't glad they had to bury a child but only that she could be there for him. It was Sherlock; he'd know how she meant it. She had learned that a long time ago._

 _After their conversation in the cab, Mary was fresh in his mind and Sherlock was quickly trying to figure out what Mary would advise him to do. She was always good with this stuff. Mary and Molly had shared tea often…_

 _"Ehm, would you come over for tea sometime? Baker Street is almost repaired. Mrs. Hudson would love some company that's not a boorish workman."_

 _Molly hesitated and then nodded. "Sure. That would be nice." She paused a brief moment, waiting to see if he had anything else to say._

 _Sherlock's brain was throwing out multiple possibilities simultaneously, anywhere from "solve cases with me" to "want to have dinner?" to "I love you". Unfortunately, the sheer magnitude of his feelings overwhelmed him and not a word managed to escape his lips._

 _In the silence that occurred Molly ended the awkwardness. "Bye, Sherlock." She entered her building and closed the door behind her._

 _Sherlock was barely aware of the cab still waiting with the motor running and door still open. He moved several steps toward the front door. He had more to say, he hadn't wanted this moment to end that way._

 _But the door seemed a huge and insurmountable obstacle, which was fairly rare to Sherlock. It wasn't often he ran into something he felt he couldn't overcome. He drifted back toward the still waiting cab. His hand was almost on the open door when he abruptly turned around again and headed for the steps. He was up two of them before reason caught up with him and turned him around again. But he still wanted to go after her._

 _He was frozen in the middle of the sidewalk trapped in a quandary when the cabbie finally lost patience._

 _"Oi! Are you done or not?"_

 _Sherlock came to his senses. He looked back and forth and groaned. This is what he had been reduced to._

 _Oscillating on the pavement. He was now a love affair case and he was boring._

 _He beat a hasty retreat and almost leaped into the cab. But as it pulled away he watched the building slide past and still wished he had gone in. He slumped back against the car seat and brooded._

 _He had to admit for the people involved, a love affair certainly didn't feel boring._

 _It felt like a strange combination of the best high he had ever experienced and the horror of withdrawal at exactly the same time._

 _No, definitely not boring._

Sherlock shunted those memories away as he started down the long lit tunnel and progressed through the final checkpoint. He needed to focus on Eurus right now; he needed his full attention on his sister.

She was sitting on the bed when the doors hissed open, but her head shifted his direction almost immediately. Sherlock stepped out and quickly commenced putting his bag on the ground and removing his violin as usual. He put the instrument to his chin and readied his bow but paused before he began, his gaze searching her out. Eurus looked as if she had relaxed somewhat just with his arrival. It was a good sign. Sherlock's gaze picked out the small but very interesting differences in Eurus and her cell before he finally applied his bow to the strings.

He played the now very familiar song, taking his time with the first line. He greeted her and asked how she was doing. He told her how much he enjoyed their visits. He hoped she did too. Perhaps she would consider meeting their parents? They were desperate to see her.

It was the first time Sherlock had mentioned their parents since his very first visit with his violin, and as he'd hoped, it brought a reaction.

Eurus stood up.

Sherlock barely missed a beat but recovered immediately, continuing on as if he hadn't noticed a thing. Their parents were quite angry with Mycroft; Eurus would be delighted to have seen them tell their brother off…

It was a bit of a risky gamble. Sherlock had enjoyed the progress he had seen in Eurus since he began visiting, but he was truly desirous for her to engage with him. As self-absorbed as he had always been, it now felt alien to spend hours talking about himself. He did feel that letting Eurus know him was good for both of them, but he wanted her to make contact with him too since one-sided communication only went so far. He wanted to help Eurus establish a connection and he couldn't do it alone. Eurus waiting for him, her violin and bow on the bed when they had not been visible on previous visits, led him to believe the time was right for a push.

So he kept at it. "Whatever she is now, she remains our daughter." That's what their father had said. Their mother was furious that she had been told her daughter was dead. One of their first questions had been when they could see her. Maybe he should bring them for a visit soon…

Eurus grabbed her Stradivarius and strode toward the glass. Sherlock's bow stilled. He didn't breathe as she shook her hair back and moved her violin into position. Her bow moved on the strings, the same line of melody but her bowing was faster, her descending notes quicker than Sherlock's had been.

"I don't want them to see me." She ended the line with a decisive bow movement and lowered it. She was clearly waiting for a reply.

Sherlock kept his face impassive and played again. "You think they'll be disappointed with what they see?"

He maintained eye contact, though it was almost unnerving to see how her eyes flashed now. Eurus was definitely in there and she had opinions. Sherlock was glad to see it even if it did remind him of the day she'd been in control of Sherrinford.

Her reply was almost instant. "I know they will."

Sherlock's melody adapted a minor key. "I don't know, Eurus. I think they would be happy to see their daughter living and breathing. That seems to be their only condition and it renders you satisfactory." His gaze caught hers even as she tried to look away. "They want to know that you're all right."

"No. I don't want them here." Eurus placed several accidental sharps in her line to make sure her point was made.

Sherlock abandoned the minor key and went for a more soothing, slower adaptation. "It's your choice. I'll respect your decision." He could see her shoulders relax at that. She knew she truly didn't have any control over who came to see her. If Sherlock wanted to force it he very well could. Her next line was the softest she had played yet.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"I hope you don't want me to go too." His eyes were tender and open.

"No, I don't." Her bow slowed and he could tell she was hesitant. "Sherlock, would you..." there was an unnatural rest in the line "play with me?"

He swallowed. All those times as a girl she had asked him that. He rarely had, preferring to spend his time outdoors and in a pirate hat. Mycroft hadn't needed to play with his younger brother so much, even though Sherlock had adored him, especially in the early days. Their age gap had made it difficult to find similar age appropriate interests and Mycroft had been content on his own for much of his life. He had been more a secondary parent to Sherlock than a playmate. As for Eurus, in his childlike mind Sherlock had assumed their different genders would create a similar gap. But now he could see that didn't even matter at all and never had. They were family, and there would always be a connection there if they chose to keep it. Something was welling up in his chest. Was this regret? He mourned the loss they had both suffered, the unknowing damage done. He blinked rapidly and applied his bow.

"Of course I will Eurus."

Eurus immediately raised her bow again. Sherlock waited for her to start. Her line had a slight vibrato as she played the first line. Sherlock waited at the ready, watching for her cue. She played the line correctly now, with careful attention to notes and intonation. It echoed off the stone walls of her cell. Her face, at first guarded and sharp, softened as she took in his readiness to join her. He showed no trace of reluctance or revulsion. She held the last note, prepared for the next line, and nodded at Sherlock to cue him in.

His violin joined hers. He let her take the lead melody and watched her carefully, filling in a harmonic line that supported and uplifted hers. Their music melded together and formed a full duet, arcing and flowing, tender and poignant.

There was no dialogue this time, no words that could properly express the thoughts that were flowing between them. Both shared their intelligence, their love of cleverness and puzzles with the other. There were many unsaid thoughts, memories shared, apologies rendered. As always, they lost track of time and continued to play until they had finally worn themselves out. They were like the two children they had once been after racing across a field and finally flopping onto the ground to find cloud shapes in the sky. When they both arrived at the end, each playing their final note with the same resolution, Sherlock smiled through the glass at his sister. She gave him a tiny one in return.

Sherlock couldn't resist playing a question. "Was that correct?"

Her gaze met his as she replied. "Yes, it was right." He could see that she was more open than she had been. He resisted the urge to pressure her about their parents again and went for a different goal. She was still unsure of herself, unsure of her place in the family no matter how she hid it with bravado and intelligence. Must be a Holmes family trait.

"You remember you said if beauty and right weren't the same thing what's the point of beauty?" He waited for her to recall their conversation on correctness and beauty. She tilted her head and nodded, curious where he was headed. "Often beauty and correct are the same, it's true. But now I think while correct is beautiful, the point of beauty is to appreciate something even if it has flaws." Sherlock's gaze was warm. When her puzzled gaze met his again, he held it and paused for effect.

"I have always thought your music was beautiful, whether it was 'right' or not."

Eurus was clearly speechless because she lowered both her violin and bow. Sherlock gave her a smile and packed up his instrument. When he gave her a last look and left, she looked deep in thought.

As he left the guard station outside her cell he heard Eurus begin to play alone on her violin for the first time since he had started visiting. It was her signature tune, but she was picking it out slowly, quizzically, examining every note.

The guards glared at him as the one at the computer pulled out his slightly dusty headphones, plugged in the cord and put them back on. Sherlock didn't care.

* * *

After the helicopter trip back Sherlock headed home. He was humming a new tune, composing in his head as he hurried up the sidewalk and into 221B. But once he got in the door he halted. Molly was in the entryway talking with Mrs. Hudson.

"Molly, hi." He knew he was too eager, too happy all of a sudden, but it was hard to hide especially given how the day had gone so far.

Molly blushed. "You said to come around for tea sometime, Mrs. Hudson and I were just about to have some."

"Really, well perhaps we could all three have tea upstairs? There's more room up there." Sherlock chose not to mention the current state it was in.

Mrs. Hudson beamed. "That's a lovely idea, Sherlock! Molly can see the wonderful chair you bought." She headed upstairs, leaving Molly and Sherlock to stare at each other. Molly was still trying to wrap her head around what Mrs. Hudson had just said. Sherlock gestured for her to go in front of him. Molly obliged but whispered as she went past.

"You bought a chair? _You?"_

"Case involving an antiques dealer." Sherlock shrugged it off as he murmured out of the side of his mouth. Molly accepted that and climbed the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson left Sherlock to entertain Molly while she bustled around the kitchen making tea. There was quiet conversation from the front room as she hummed to herself and put the kettle on. She checked her watch. It was after five and the workmen were done for the day. John should be out of work soon. Her phone pinged in her apron pocket.

Sherlock had led Molly in and placed the bag containing his violin in a corner. Both were still standing, looking around as they took in the work in progress that was the living room. The wall with the fireplace was sporting new wallpaper, a fresh and clean version of the one that had previously been there. The shelves on either side of the fireplace had been removed and were in the process of being rebuilt. Their empty space sported a blackened wall that was being prepped for repainting. The mantel was sanded but hadn't been refinished yet. On the other side of the room, the black and white wallpaper was half new and half bare wall. While the couch had been hauled away, Sherlock now had a working desk, coffee table and small table next to John's chair. Molly was turning to take in the entire room when she spotted the new chair lurking in the far corner just beyond the door.

"Is that it?" She moved to get a closer look. Sherlock went with her. "It's beautiful, Sherlock. Well done."

"Thank you. It just struck me once I saw it, and I had to have it. John was quite confused."

Molly laughed. "I can imagine. That's not your usual style."

"Indeed." Sherlock grabbed the chair by both arms and moved it across the room to place it next to his own. "But I find I am discovering much about myself I didn't know before." He gave Molly a smile and indicated she should sit in the new chair. She gave him a searching look as she crossed the room then admired the chair once more before she sat in it.

"I love the color," she admitted, "it's quite uplifting."

"That's what I thought." Sherlock was moving the new coffee table to rest in between John's and theirs, obviously intending Mrs. Hudson to sit in John's chair. Once that was done he looked at her again. "Is it comfortable?"

Molly took a moment to evaluate. "Yes, it is."

Sherlock gave her a broad smile. "Excellent." He seated himself in his chair.

Molly remembered the bag he'd been holding as he entered downstairs. "How are your visits going with Eurus?"

"Very well actually." Sherlock nodded his satisfaction.

"She's communicating?" Molly's tone was eager and excited.

"Just today. We played together." Sherlock had a nostalgic and tender look on his face. It wasn't something Molly would ever expect to see, and yet once she did it seemed perfectly at home there. Sherlock's eyes had a spark of mischief in them when he spoke next. "It went much better than the first time we talked there."

"I'm sure," Molly's eyes were sparkling with laughter as they met Sherlock's. She felt warm and bubbly all of sudden as Sherlock's eyes smiled into her own. She had to look away and quickly found a new topic to discuss as her gaze fell on the empty far side of the room. "You're going to need a new couch." She gestured to the empty wall.

"Mmm," Sherlock was still looking at her. "Mrs. Hudson thinks she has a replacement lined up. An old bachelor she knew, Clarence Watkins, passed away and his nephew is selling his belongings. Bit of a clearance sale."

Molly's mouth twisted and quirked. "Or a Clarence sale?"

The joke popped out before she could even think about how inappropriate it might be. She pressed her lips together, an apology ready behind them.

But this was Sherlock she was talking to, and he was laughing. His face was relaxed and spread with a wide grin. Molly felt her tension drain away as she joined in.

"What's so funny?" Mrs. Hudson came in with a loaded tray and placed it on the coffee table. Both Molly and Sherlock stifled their laughter and quickly moved the conversation back to needed furniture items.

Over tea and biscuits, Molly and Mrs. Hudson chatted about the best places to find furniture and what possible pieces were still needed. Sherlock expressed a desire for pillows since he used the couch as a bed at times. Molly was feeling comfortable and untroubled for once and offered to help him find some. Sherlock happily accepted. Mrs. Hudson beamed between the two of them just as John and Rosie climbed the stairs. John took in the impromptu tea party and the happy faces all around.

"Looks like we've interrupted something, Rosie."

"Nonsense, we're just chatting. Come in, John." Mrs. Hudson offered John his chair and took the teapot back to the kitchen for a refill. Molly immediately offered to hold Rosie.

John handed over his daughter and settled into his chair. He scrutinized Sherlock, who was looking positively _happy_ , and Molly who looked perfectly content as she bounced Rosie on her knee. He looked back and forth, trying to identify the cause. Sherlock observed him from behind the ginger nut he was holding. Mrs. Hudson had bought them especially for some occasion known only to her.

"How was your day, John?" Molly was letting Rosie hold a spoon in her chubby hand.

"Good. Well, same old same old." John was still looking between them. "Sherlock, your day going well?"

Sherlock nodded as he swallowed. "Very well, actually."

John's narrowed gaze was now squarely on Molly and the yellow chair she was sitting in. "I bet it is." He didn't miss how it was planted right next to Sherlock's chair, or the coffee table in between his chair and theirs. He gave Sherlock a penetrating look. "I just bet it is." Sherlock's face was arranged to look a little too innocent.

"I'm going to help Sherlock find a few things for Baker Street now that it's almost put to rights." Molly was speaking to Rosie's face but it was clear the sentence was meant for John.

"Really? You two are…furniture shopping, together?" John's eyebrows were sky high.

Sherlock finished his tea and put it down on the table, somehow managing to flick his sugar spoon across the table at John's knee. "Indeed. I seem to be quite helpless about these things." He gave John a tight smile across the tea tray as John bent over to retrieve the spoon.

John's eyes narrowed again. "I'm sure you are. So helpless." Sherlock's brows were drawing together as he frowned at John, warning him off the subject of chairs and furniture in general.

Molly was still playing with the baby. "Oh I don't know, you did pretty well with this chair, Sherlock. Perhaps we could choose the pillows to go with it. Some sort of yellow, cheerful color."

"Ah well, that settles it then," Sherlock said airily. "I'm rubbish at cheery colors. I'll definitely need help from an expert." He traded smiles with Molly and reached for his goddaughter. Molly handed Rosie over as Mrs. Hudson came with a fresh teapot and a cup for John.

As Molly finished her tea John noted how Molly's jumper had several bright colors in it, including yellow, and realized exactly why Sherlock had been drawn to this particular chair. He looked back to Sherlock and found the other's eyes already on him, trying and failing to hide his unease that John was going to say something that would make everyone uncomfortable. Tempted as he was, John took the high road and gave a small shake of his head to lay Sherlock's worry to rest. Sherlock relaxed back into his chair.

John looked around the flat and noted the progress being made. "It's true Sherlock, you're useless at cheery colors. Except maybe that yellow smiley but you managed to ruin that with bullet holes." He frowned at the bare wall that was sporting obvious places where bullet holes had been recently patched.

"Thank goodness those will be taken care of," Mrs. Hudson chimed in "I've wanted to fix those for ages." Sherlock and John traded a look.

John would have dearly loved to grill his friend about what exactly was going on but Rosie began to fuss shortly after tea and he knew he needed to get her home, fed and into bed. He quickly finished his tea and bid them goodbye before heading out. Molly followed him a minute later and headed home as well.

Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the kitchen while Sherlock put the furniture back and disappeared into his room with his violin. Through the closed door, she could hear him playing a tune she had never heard before in fits and starts. He was composing. Mrs. Hudson left a plate of ginger nuts on the table and retired to her own flat. Once she got there she checked her phone.

IS HE DOING ALL RIGHT? –MH

Mrs. Hudson gave the phone a sad smile. Heaven forbid the man ask his own brother how he was doing. These two…

HE HAD A GOOD DAY. HE'S BEEN TO SEE YOUR SISTER AGAIN. THANKS FOR THE GINGER NUT TIP.

She put her phone down and relaxed at the kitchen table.

What a lovely day.

* * *

The next afternoon John was enjoying his day off. Sherlock hadn't come up with a good case for either of them but that was okay, he had really enjoyed playing with Rosie and feeding her again before she went down for her nap. She was growing so fast. He wished Mary could be here to see it.

The sound of the mail coming in through the door caught his attention and he picked it up. Bills and junk mostly, nothing special.

Except for the square, white, padded envelope. That he instantly recognized. That one made his heart skip a beat. It was marked private and personal in red block letters.

He ripped it open and sure enough, it contained a DVD. The two words written on the disc in Mary's handwriting weren't the same two that had been on the first one, but these ones gave him a greater jolt than even those had been able to.

 _Miss You_

 _I miss you too…_ His eyes burned, and he had to sit on the couch while he sucked in deep, halting breaths and tried to stop the clawing grief that wanted to break out of his chest. It was several minutes before he was able to deal with anything else. Good thing Rosie was sleeping.

When John felt better, he called his best friend. Sherlock answered on the second ring.

"John? Are you okay?" John rarely called, he always texted.

"Uh, yeah, I—I think you'd better get around here."

* * *

 _ **Note: Sherlock and Eurus playing violin together is the first part of the aptly named "Who You Really Are" from TFP soundtrack (before it transitions into the Sherlock theme). Just in case it isn't clear or you want to picture it with music. That melody on a solo violin is what Eurus was playing before Sherlock walked into her cell the first time and has been the one I picture them using to speak, much like Sherlock did in playing for her at the end of TFP. :)**_

 _ **Ok, so it should be clear what's coming in the next chapter but there will be some surprises as well. Mycroft is pushing his way into this story and I don't mind it at all lol, I love Mycroft. I have the story planned out as far as basic plot but as I go some plot points are blossoming into a chapter all by themselves. Plus other ideas and story ideas are flitting around and I have to decide if they'll be part of this story or one on their own. I'm still not sure how long this will be but I don't plan to drag it out, I'd rather get it to feel just right. If you're at all nervous about me not finishing please don't be, that is something I seem to be incapable of. It will be concluded at the right time and I won't leave it hanging.**_

 _ **Thanks for coming along for the ride and I hope you're enjoying it!**_


	6. Chapter 6

**_OK buckle up for a feels ride again! Sorry there's a lot of emotion to be dealt with, lol. Mycroft has inserted himself into this story and I'm fine with it, sorry if it suddenly feels like I'm dwelling on him too much. There is a point! (Eventually.) We also get some lovely Sherlock and John discussion._**

 ** _Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and support, you guys are the best and I really appreciate every one of you._**

 ** _Thanks for reading hope you enjoy it! :)_ **

**Chapter 6**

 ** _"_** _Ten, nine, eight, seven…"_

 _Mycroft watched, horrified, as Sherlock counted down the last seconds of his life. He had taken one step toward his little brother as he realized what Sherlock was planning to do, but his brain was paralyzed with fear._

 _"No, no, Sherlock…"_

 _Eurus' objections and attempts to make Sherlock stop seemed to mirror Mycroft's thoughts exactly and the closer Sherlock came to the number one the more Mycroft was afraid he would actually do it. Sherlock had always been a bit too close to the line when it came to flirting with death. In that way he was too much like Moriarty, and it scared Mycroft more than he wanted to admit. It always had. The image of the Governor killing himself with that exact gun, the spray of blood and tissue, how he had retched at the sight, was too fresh in Mycroft's memory and he didn't think he could bear to watch Sherlock die the same way without losing his mind._

 _"You can't …you don't know about Redbeard yet…"_

 _"…six…five…four..."_

 _Eurus was becoming more agitated, but it was clear Sherlock was barely listening._

 _This wasn't what he wanted; he had been prepared to sacrifice himself. He was supposed to die._

 _Mycroft was still frozen, unable to act for fear of causing his brother to pull the trigger even sooner. If he rushed him he could set off a catastrophic chain of events._

 _"Sherlock stop that at once!" Eurus' voice had reached a fevered pitch; all Mycroft could think was that Sherlock had ruined her plans, her little game. She sounded so inconvenienced._

 _He was so intently focused on his brother that Mycroft never saw the small dart that flew across the room, only Sherlock jerk in surprise and reach up to pull something out of the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw John move in a similar manner. He reached up to his own neck but felt only bare skin. His eyes flew back to Sherlock, who was already dropping to the floor. The gun dropped from his hand and he landed flat on his back, unconscious._

 _But still alive._

 _Mycroft turned to John just in time to see him landing on the floor too. His immediate thought was to get to the gun that had skittered across the floor to the back of the room, but before he had even moved a step guards rushed in and grabbed both of his arms. He pulled against them fruitlessly and addressed Eurus, who was still on the screen._

 _"Are they all right? What did you do to them—" More guards had already grabbed John under the arms and were hauling him from the room. Mycroft was suddenly flooded with fear._

 _Oh God, not another one._

 _"Please don't hurt John Watson…" He could feel the tremor in his voice and hated himself for displaying such weakness but he had no time to dwell on it as another pair of guards bent down, hoisted Sherlock with an arm under each of his, and began to drag him out of the room too._

 _Panic replaced fear._

 _"What are you going to do to him? What are you doing to our brother, Eurus?" He began to struggle against his captors in earnest now, torn between wanting to follow Sherlock even though it was clear his guards had no intention of taking him along and getting an answer out of his sister. As Sherlock's feet slid out of sight, his eyes turned to fix on the screen._

 _"What are you going to do to them?"_

 _Eurus had been looking at Sherlock's unconscious form too. Mycroft's questions brought her gaze back to his. Her mouth curved in what should have been a half smile, but to Mycroft it looked more like a menacing leer._

 _"Oh Mycroft," She studied him as if he were an interesting worm she was about to dissect. "That's for me to know…and you to dwell on." Her gaze shifted to the men still holding her brother. "Put him in my cell. Let's see how he likes it."_

 _"Eurus, do whatever you want to me, kill me if you like, just don't hurt Sherlock…" He was already struggling, already speaking fast and scared, but as the guards began to pull him backward Mycroft lost every shred of reserve he had ever had. He pulled back against his captors, his shoes sliding against the slick concrete floor, struggling to keep Eurus in view. "Don't hurt him, Eurus, it's not his fault! Don't hurt them! Please, punish me…don't hurt them…don't hurt them!"_

 _The sound of his screaming echoed down the hallway they dragged him through, bouncing off the walls, mirroring and building his terror exponentially. Everything he had ever done, everything he had ever sacrificed to watch over Sherlock was being undone. His brother was going to die at the hands of his sister, just as he'd worried would happen as a boy. That fate now seemed inescapable no matter how many years had passed. The walls closed in around him, smothering him in waves of his own pleading; all his power and control, his very restraint stripped away…_

 _"Don't hurt them…don't hurt Sherlock! Don't hurt Sherlock!"_

Mycroft woke suddenly, his eyes snapping open. He could feel his breathing, harsh and irregular, as he lay frozen and immobile on his bed. He stared at the canopy of his four poster bed, taking in the thick burgundy bed hangings and their heavy fringe. He carefully counted individual fringe pieces, pacing one deep inhale and exhale with each one counted. He arrived at sixty before his breathing was fully under control and his panic had subsided. He noted the number with dull frustration. He wasn't getting any better, in fact, he was worse. He used to be able to relax before he hit forty tassels.

He rolled over and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, flipping through texts until he got to the one he wanted to see. He'd already read it at least four times but he still needed the reassurance.

HE HAD A GOOD DAY. HE'S BEEN TO SEE YOUR SISTER AGAIN. THANKS FOR THE GINGER NUT TIP.

Mycroft let his hand go lax on his phone, resisting the urge to text another question to Mrs. Hudson. It was 5 am after all, and it wouldn't do to seem too eager or worried. Mrs. Hudson had been difficult to convince to report to him as it was. He rolled onto his back and stared at nothing.

It was clear that Mrs. Hudson's loyalties lay with Sherlock and John, and that had been no surprise to Mycroft. He had never considered asking her for reports on Sherlock because he knew she'd not only refuse but also tell him off for spying. Mycroft had always been happy to find other ways of monitoring his little brother. After her chilly reception of him that day he had been forced to sit in the chair like a common client, he certainly wouldn't have considered her an option then either.

But that same day, as he turned and raced for the hallway under threat of being blown up along with his brother and John Watson, he had been determined to make sure nothing happened to their landlady. Sherlock had trusted him with her safety, and after the CIA agent went out the window (several times) Mycroft knew how much she meant to him.

The blast had propelled him down the stairs faster than he ever would have preferred under normal circumstances, sweeping his feet out from under him and slamming him into the wall at the landing halfway up. Smoke and debris followed him, bathing him in thick dust. Thankfully the wall of the hallway had blocked some of the force and spared him breaking bones as he impacted. He had lost no time scrambling to his feet again and making his way down the last staircase as the building shuddered and creaked. He dearly wanted to go straight out the front door to check on his brother, but the awful sounds of breaking glass and cracking, splintering wood persuaded him to burst through Mrs. Hudson's front door. It wouldn't do to leave her inside if the entire building was going to come down. Sherlock would never forgive him.

Chunks and particles of plaster were raining down from her ceiling as Mycroft rushed through, heading for the back and hopefully Mrs. Hudson. Coughing, peering through the haze, he spotted her immediately on the floor next to the cupboard she stored the hoover in. Their timing had been impeccable. The door was open and the just barely stored hoover was falling back out. Mrs. Hudson was cowering with her arms over her head, shocked to her core.

"Mrs. Hudson, get up." Mycroft reached down to pull her to her feet.

"What's going on?" She threw a look at the ceiling, terrified it was going to come down.

"Later, Sherlock sent me for you."

That was all she needed to hear. She moved with him immediately, stumbling slightly. He put an arm around her and rushed for the kitchen and the back door to the alley. As they burst out into relative fresh air (smoke was pouring out the back window of the stairwell where the drone had broken through), Mycroft became aware of an ache in his side and back. Being thrown against a wall would do that to you. He ignored it.

"What about Sherlock and John?" Mrs. Hudson looked afraid of the answer.

"They went out the front windows." Mycroft hadn't stopped moving and was now escorting Mrs. Hudson with a hand at her arm. He moved at a half-running pace around to the front, desperate to see if Sherlock was okay. Something of his concern for his brother must have shown through because after she looked at his face Mrs. Hudson allowed herself to be dragged along, trying as best she could to keep up.

The street in front of the building was littered with shattered glass and debris. Car alarms were sounding up and down the street. Mycroft could hear sirens in the distance. Smoke was billowing from the upper windows on this side as well. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson scanned the sidewalk anxiously.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's raised voice had a higher pitch than usual. He swallowed his fear.

Mrs. Hudson touched his arm and pointed. "There!"

Mycroft squinted to see through the floating bits of descending debris and smoke and picked out his brother's tall form helping John to his feet. Both looked stiff and sore, but one piece of stiff and sore. Mycroft hurried to them.

"Are you all right? Is anything broken?"

Sherlock was dusting himself off. "I'm fine. John?"

John was bent over coughing. He managed a thumbs up sign to indicate he was good and concentrated on clearing his lungs.

Mycroft looked up at the second floor and down at the two of them in disbelief. "How did you two land without breaking both your legs?"

Sherlock was checking Mrs. Hudson for injuries. Satisfied that she was unhurt, he turned back to his brother and ran a quick glance up and down his form as well. Satisfied, he smiled at his brother. "Tuck and roll, brother dear. Tuck and roll." He turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "Sorry about the flat Mrs. Hudson. Can you manage on your own? I'm afraid we must pay a visit to a secret prison and handle this threat at the source."

"Go on," Mrs. Hudson flapped a hand at them, now over her initial surprise and fear. She put a hand on Mycroft's sleeve, drawing his attention. "Glad you're okay too Mycroft." Apparently, his coming for her had softened her towards him a bit.

Sherlock shook his head. "Oh no, I think we'll have to report Mycroft as hospitalized, don't you think? Unconscious. May not pull through." He gave them both a mock look of dismay and instantly moved on to planning mode. "Mycroft, how do you feel about adopting a disguise?"

Mycroft allowed Sherlock to pull him out of the aftershock and into the next step. It was better for both of them, really. No need to focus on sentiment when they were all fine. "Perhaps Lady Bracknell?"

"No," John had cleared his lungs enough to speak. "Surely not. I think something else might be more appropriate."

"You sure you don't want a spot of tea before you go?" Mrs. Hudson's question was addressed to all three of them.

"Sorry, no time." Sherlock gestured to the fire trucks pulling up. He gave John and Mycroft a look full of meaning. "We must be on our way. Good thing my coat is hanging by the front door." Sherlock casually walked up the front steps, opened the front door to 221b and retrieved his Belstaff. He shrugged it on and finger combed his hair, looking as if he did this kind of thing every day. Mycroft had to admire how quickly his brother recovered under such circumstances. "Shall we? We'll be back later Mrs. Hudson. John?"

John nodded and fell into step with Sherlock as they moved away. Mycroft started to follow but stopped when he felt Mrs. Hudson's hand on his sleeve. He looked down at her.

"Look out for your brother, Mycroft Homes." Her expression made it perfectly clear that she knew he already put a lot of effort into that particular job. "And look out for yourself."

He gave her his classic Mycroft smile, but slightly softer. "I will. No more hoovering for you until the building is declared safe."

She almost patted his cheek but refrained and they both knew it. They shared a look of mutual understanding.

Once Mycroft had caught up with John, he fell into his usual banter. "Tuck and roll?" He gave John a look.

John gave him a somber expression. "They teach it to all the army doctors, didn't you know that? You should take note for the future."

"Indeed." Mycroft lengthened his stride to catch up with Sherlock. John followed suit, and the three of them walked to the next corner over, where Mycroft had told his driver and car to wait.

After that day, Mrs. Hudson's eyes had been opened to the idea that Mycroft was less spying and more concerned, no matter how he tried to cover it. Mycroft had been somewhat discomfited to have her looking at him differently, but his desire to have a source close to Sherlock keep him updated as to Sherlock's mental and emotional state after Sherrinford took precedence. The first time he had texted her and asked how Sherlock was doing she agreed to give him regular updates only if he helped her clean up several parking tickets and a speeding one. Mycroft could tell she was worried about reporting to him, feeling it was a betrayal of her boys as if she were spying. She was making him give something in return. With her ticket ultimatum he had wavered, wondering if there was some other bargain to be struck. But once she said it was that or come over for tea once a week he quickly relented. Just the thought of suffering through chit chat and tea made him retreat to the Diogenes club for the rest of the evening. It was true he cared, but he could only get so far out of his comfort zone.

Mycroft gave up on sleep and got out of bed. He thumbed through the rest of his texts, skipping past the one from his mother asking if Sherlock had said anything about a visit soon. Those came daily. He made a mental note to reply later. The thought came, as it did every day, that perhaps he should refer his parents to Sherlock on that subject. But every time he decided it was better to shoulder that burden instead of dumping it on his little brother. He didn't spend time dwelling on why he thought that was better, whether it was caring for his brother or a punishment he was administering to himself. He also noted a text from Lady Smallwood, the third this week. Not that he was counting. He paused with thumb poised to tap it and reply but instead kept scrolling. He laid his mobile on the nightstand and thought for a moment, then picked up his house phone. Sherrinford was never asleep so it wouldn't be too early. Mycroft had some questions he needed to be answered.

* * *

John opened the door to his flat the moment Sherlock raised his fist to knock lightly. Sherlock halted in surprise, his fist suspended in midair.

"Rosie's sleeping," John gestured him for him to come in.

Sherlock stepped over the threshold and into the living room, unsurprised to see the DVD in John's hand. He had wondered if that was the reason for John's tone on the phone. He gave his friend a close look. "This one came to you. Perhaps you'd like to watch it alone first—"

"No," John was already walking to the television and DVD player. "I don't think I can do this by myself." Sherlock nodded his assent and moved to the couch, but when John sat down and waited for Sherlock to do the same Sherlock found that he couldn't. He was too on edge about seeing Mary's face again; too nervous about what she might say. He faced the television and waited, and John easily read the motion. He picked up the remote and pressed play.

Mary's face appeared on the screen, smiling at them. Sherlock hadn't realized how much he had missed her smiling at him, her acceptance and friendship. Something in him felt lighter than he had upon arriving. Mary had always done that for him.

John could feel the lump in his throat, the pain of loss all over again at that smile. He missed his wife.

"P.S. I know you two, and if I'm gone I know what you could become. Because I know who you really are." Sherlock looked askance at John. Mary had perfectly called how both would react if she died. John's mouth quirked in a tiny smile. She really did know them.

Mary continued. "A junkie who solves crimes to get high. And the doctor who never came home from the war."

Both men blinked. Mary had been nowhere around when they had first become roommates, both at what they thought would be their lowest point. But she had seen it in them, even later after they had both progressed so far.

Mary leaned forward. "Well, you listen to me, who you really are it doesn't matter. It's all about the legend. The stories. The adventures."

Both men stared at the screen, desperate for more of her. Mary obliged. "There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court of appeal for everyone."

Sherlock smiled slightly, remembering the occasion when Mary had been the one in that position. She of all people would know. And look how much she had given them.

John's mouth dropped slightly. He hadn't realized how much he had picked up from his wife. He had said something similar to Mycroft after they scared him senseless in his home.

"When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat. Like they've always been there, and they always will. The best and wisest men I have ever known. My Baker Street boys. Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Watson." Mary's mouth quivered ever so slightly, and both could tell she was contemplating losing her life before she could fully enjoy it with them. John swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. Sherlock looked at the floor.

The DVD ended, leaving them with a blank screen. Mary once again had blipped in and out of their lives. As neither one wanted to break the moment, the silence stretched for several minutes.

Sherlock spoke first. "Your wife, as always, was a woman of rare perception and intelligence."

Finally, John stood up and turned off the television. Sherlock remained where he was, hands clasped behind his back. John turned to face him. Sherlock could read the question on John's face and raised his brows, waiting for him to verbalize it. John looked away, formulating his words.

"What does she mean by that? 'It doesn't matter who you really are'. Isn't that the point? What's she saying?"

"She is giving us permission to live as we always have. Working cases. Being friends."

John's expression crumpled in confusion and disagreement. "No, there's no way she's saying that, if we went back to our old ways and I failed in my duties to Rosie she'd come back from the dead and murder us both."

"It's true, she would." Sherlock nodded. "She knows who we really are at our lowest point. A junkie, a man who misses the war. But we don't have to just be that. She's telling us to make our own legend, decide what stories we'll leave behind." John looked ready to argue again, so Sherlock moved to sit on the couch. His fingertips found each other and both hands raised to his chin. John waited, somewhat impressed. Sherlock was really applying himself to this.

After a moment Sherlock dropped his hands and looked up at John. "When you tell Rosie stories about her mother, what stories will you tell her? Will you tell her she once worked for the CIA, that she performed many actions that are somewhat dubious in their legality?"

John was already shaking his head. "Of course not."

"Of course not, because that's not all she was. And that wasn't what she deemed most important about her life." Sherlock was warming to the subject, his speech coming rapid fire as his mouth tried to keep up with his brain. "You'll tell Rosie how much her mother loved her, about how she loved being Mrs. John Watson, how you and Rosie were the world she chose and zealously protected. How she cared about her friends so much she died saving my life. That's the real Mary, the stories she held as most important for herself. The same applies to us. Should we remain a lost soldier and a hopeless junkie? Or should we make sure we are available to those who need help, and of course those with a fascinating case?" John rolled his eyes but said nothing. He was staring intently at his friend. This was a side if Sherlock he didn't think he'd ever seen.

Sherlock hardly noticed. "She's not telling us that's all we are. She's telling us that we can be more. Mary knows who you could become in the face of loss, but she also knows who you can be if you choose not to let that loss beat you. The man she already saw in you, the man she thought you were. That's what she's telling you to be." He finally stopped rambling and waited for John to be impressed.

John blinked back moisture. "Get the hell on with it." He muttered it thickly, swallowing hard.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that's exactly what she's saying."

John was fairly impressed but too emotional about Mary's message to say it. He cleared his throat, hands on his hips, and looked at his best friend. Mary wanted Sherlock to get the hell on with it too.

"She always saw the best in us."

"Yes, she did." Sherlock clasped his hands together in his lap and tried not to let his emotions show. He was largely failing at that lately, and talking about Mary made it more difficult.

John cleared his throat. "I, uh, need to apologize."

Sherlock flapped a hand, glad for a change in topic. "No need, I'm used to explaining things to you."

John's mouth twitched but he didn't allow himself to be diverted. "No, that day at Baker Street. Your birthday, when I yelled at you to take your opportunity with Irene Adler. I meant it and I still do, but I was telling you to do it with the wrong woman." John skewered Sherlock with a look. Sherlock promptly let his face drop in an overly confused expression that didn't fool either one of them for a moment.

"Oh? Who should you have been referring to?"

"Don't. Just don't. It's too late for that." At last, John moved to the couch and sat opposite his friend. "I want to know what your plans are with Molly Hooper."

"Oh, well, day after tomorrow she is going to help me find the right pillows for Baker Street—"

"No, you know that's not what I mean. I want to talk about that phone call, and what you're going to do about it." John leaned toward his best friend slightly. "This is me, the man Mary thought I was, John Watson, reaching out to a hopelessly lost person who needs help." John waited.

A myriad of fleeting expressions crossed Sherlock's face. Eventually, he focused on the coffee table in front of him and measured his words carefully.

"As of right now, I'm simply trying to preserve my friendship with Molly. That day did a lot of damage and if I don't exert some effort she will no longer be in my life, I can see that clearly."

"That's it? Just friendship?" John's face was incredulous. "My God, you really are a bloody moron."

Sherlock gritted his teeth at such needling. "What do you want me to say, John?"

"I want you to say, out loud, how you feel about her to me, your best friend who only wants the best for you. That's what I want." John knew he was asking for a lot, but he refused to go easy. Sherlock had been hiding from feelings almost his whole life, and John felt that this time period was crucial to Sherlock actually growing as a human being. He couldn't back down; he couldn't let Sherlock retreat behind his walls again. Mary would agree.

Sherlock was silent, staring at the carpet now, and John could see that he was struggling. He leaned in again.

"Sherlock, that day at Sherrinford, Eurus put us through hell. She made us dance like puppets; we had no control. And the only time I saw you lose it completely, have ever seen you lose it completely, was after that phone call with Molly." Sherlock's eyes flickered his way for a moment and stubbornly refocused on the floor. "Now, there was no bomb. She wasn't in any danger physically. Eurus got what she wanted and you got her to say it." John was staring hard at Sherlock's profile, readying the final blow.

"So tell me, Sherlock. Why did you smash that coffin?"

Silence reigned supreme. Sherlock took a deep breath. John waited, refusing to give him an out. Finally, Sherlock spoke, again measuring his words carefully and speaking them slowly.

"When I placed the lid on that coffin, it was the death knell for my friendship with Molly. I knew it. Eurus had decimated it past anything salvageable. Molly would never be able to simply be friends with me again. It was possible I had killed anything she had ever felt for me." Sherlock pushed back into the couch, straightening his body and lifting his head, but still staring at the floor. "I didn't realize why at the time, but all I could think was that once more my sister had taken something I cared about and killed it before it even had a chance to reach full development. I ran my hand over that wood, and I said goodbye. All my emotions concerning her were now inside. They would be buried somewhere in the graveyard of my mind palace."

John would have rolled his eyes at his friend's typical dramatic delivery, but the image of Sherlock putting his love for someone else in a coffin and preparing to bury it was more affecting than he ever would have anticipated. He held his breath, hoping for more.

Sherlock looked like he was reliving that day inside his head, barely focused on the floor, barely aware John was still there.

"I looked at the nameplate, at those words Molly had said to me. Those words I had said—meant—those words I meant—and I realized I felt grief. Suddenly the loss of Molly in my life, the containment of my feelings, both were unacceptable to me." Sherlock's jaw went rigid as he enunciated each syllable. "They were unacceptable. And I became angry."

The splintering wood and overpowering emotional outpouring suddenly made sense. John realized his mouth was open and closed it. "Why don't you tell this to Molly?"

"She doesn't want to talk about the phone call. We pretend it never happened or she'll be gone from my life. I am happy to keep her friendship if that's all I can have."

"All you can—Sherlock, I don't think Molly has completely got rid of her feelings for you either. You need to talk to her about this."

Sherlock hesitated. "There's something else." Sherlock finally met John's eyes. "Do you think I am actually capable of a real relationship? Or do you think I would only hurt her more?"

John's eyebrows rose at least a foot and his mouth was open again. Never had he ever pictured Sherlock Holmes asking him such a thing. He felt it deserved some serious thought before he replied. He ran a hand over his face and tried to be as honest as possible.

"Look, before you faked your death I would say no, there was no way you could manage an actual romantic relationship." Sherlock nodded, clearly anticipating such an answer. John rushed to continue. "But the man who came back from the dead, the man who befriended my fiancée immediately and stuck by her through secret pasts and gunshot wounds, the friend who fought harder for my marriage than I did at first. The man who became godfather to my child. I think, yeah. I think you could do it. I think Molly would be very well cared for. I think she'd be lucky. You both would."

Sherlock's mouth curved up on one side as he showed his appreciation to his friend for his support. "It is a careful, fragile business, dealing with feelings. I need to proceed carefully."

"Words I never thought I'd hear from you, but I agree. But don't wait too long, Sherlock. Don't miss your chance. You never know how long you've got." Sherlock acknowledged that with a small nod. John gave him a considering glance. "Are you sure you're not just scared to get involved emotionally? It seems that losing Victor Trevor did a number on you for years."

Sherlock actually smiled. "No, I've learned my lesson there. I tried to keep everyone at arm's length most of my life, but no matter how I fought it I still ended up with a new best friend. And thank God for that." Sherlock smiled at John. "Then his wife was another best friend, but no matter how much I wanted to I still couldn't keep her safe." Sherlock exhaled heavily. "Life is loss." He thought a moment. "But it does seem to give back too."

As if life approved of that statement, the cooing sounds of a freshly awakened Rosie echoed over the baby monitor. She was awake and ready for daddy. Sherlock stood up and prepared to leave. John walked him to the door.

Once there Sherlock turned back with a final thought. "I think I owe you an apology too."

"Without a doubt, but which of many occurrences are you apologizing for?" John had to work to keep the gleeful expression off his face. Sherlock ignored it.

"When you told me a romantic relationship would complete me as a human being I told you that didn't even mean anything. I think, now, I do have some sliver of understanding on what you meant." Sherlock gave him a small smile. "Thank you, John."

John smiled back. "Anytime. I'll bring Rosie around tomorrow, shall I?"

"Yes please, the workers are close to putting the finishing touches on."

"Great. Bye."

Sherlock set off down the street, and John went upstairs to get Rosie. Mary's face was still fresh in his mind, Sherlock's words echoing in his ears. He lifted Rosie out of her crib and checked her diaper, suddenly very aware that he hadn't talked about Mary to Rosie since she'd died. That needed to be rectified immediately. Rosie was still a baby, but he wouldn't do her or Mary's memory any favors by waiting.

"Rosie, did you know you are one of your mum's greatest stories?" He kissed her cheek. "Let's go downstairs and see her, shall we? You need to know who Mary Watson was."

He carried his daughter downstairs to look at their wedding album.

* * *

 ** _I honestly think this is the only time in the course of the series that I could imagine Mycroft genuinely losing control. It was a scene that crept into my head and wouldn't go away. Poor Mycroft... Also, note that his view of Eurus is different than Sherlock's ultimately ends up being and it hasn't changed much. His narration is slightly less reliable due to that.  
_**

 ** _Next chapter will have some Sherlock and Molly fun I'm already excited about writing and some other things I'm looking forward to!_**

 ** _We need a little levity after the feels._**

 ** _Next chapter will be up Thursday or Friday next week. :) Thanks for reading!_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Fair warning, this chapter is huge! I just couldn't find a good place to split it, so it's going to stay one big one. I had a good time writing this one, lots of fun and things are moving along. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it! :) Thanks also for the wonderful reviews and support.**_

 **Chapter 7**

At precisely eleven in the morning, a taxi rolled to a stop in front of Molly's building. She was ready, wrapped in a jumper and with an oversized bag on her shoulder large enough to hold pillows if necessary, but it still made her smile to see how precise Sherlock was when it came to making plans. If it didn't sound ludicrous, she'd think he asked the cabbie to pull over for two and a half minutes to make sure he would arrive at exactly the time he said he would. But he wouldn't go that far. At least she didn't think so.

She skipped down the steps and pulled open the door. Sherlock was smiling at her from the other side of the car. He waited while she got in and closed the door, then immediately got down to business.

"Good morning, Molly. I have researched possible businesses that might have pillows of the type we are looking for; they are listed here in order from least to most expensive, and by region so we don't waste time traveling back and forth over the city." He produced a piece of paper and showed her a long list of businesses he had written down, then flipped it over to show her the one stapled underneath with the exact same names written under several different categories.

Molly smothered a laugh. "Sherlock, I had a different plan in mind." She watched his face fall and rushed to console him. "That's a great list, really it is. But I thought we could do some wandering and see what we find. We just need to start in the correct place." Sherlock held up his list again. "No, actually a market is probably our best shot."

Sherlock stared at her, obviously still processing all the facts. "So…we just…wander around? Without a set destination or plan?" He looked just this side of horrified.

Molly maintained a patient tone, suddenly feeling like she was addressing a toddler. "Yes, Sherlock. That's what shopping ends up like sometimes."

Sherlock looked somewhat miffed as he folded his list and tucked it away. "Sounds a bit risky, but I'm willing to give it a try."

"Thank you." Molly leaned forward to give instructions to the driver, who had been making annoyed sounds for at least half of their conversation. "Portobello Road, please." She settled back on the seat next to Sherlock and smiled brightly at him, hoping to make him feel better. "Besides, shopping trips like this lets you spend the day with your shopping buddy. It can be a lot of fun."

Sherlock's expression lost the pouting quality that had been showing. He gave Molly a considering look and was pleased by whatever conclusion he came to because he faced forward with a smile as the taxi pulled into traffic.

* * *

The cab dropped them at the top of Portobello Road and they walked into the bustling marketplace know for its antiques and unique quirky wares. It was Friday and the market was coming to life for the weekend. The shops were open, sporting antique furniture and clothing or crafty household items, all independent and many selling one of a kind product. Vendors were setting up outside stalls that stretched for a mile down the road. It was artistic, quirky and full of life. Molly looked very at home immersed in it. Sherlock felt out of place but kept pace with her.

Molly looked through a shop window. "Let's try in here, Sherlock." She moved inside and started poking through shelves and bins of house décor. Sherlock stifled a sigh and followed.

And so it went. They wandered in and out of possible stores, looking for pillows and getting distracted by anything that caught their eye. Molly spent several minutes looking over a rack of vintage jumpers before her eyes fell on Sherlock and her hands dropped immediately.

"Sorry. We're supposed to be shopping for you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't mind. I like this one," He pulled out a lilac one that looked to be hand knitted with a lacy open weave. "But I don't know if you'd be happy with the sleeves."

Molly blushed. "I was looking at that one too, but you're right the sleeves are too full. They'd bunch up under my lab coat or drip out and get into my work. I don't think I'd get through a day in the lab without getting blood or brains all over them."

"Quite right." Sherlock replaced the jumper, aware that the shopkeeper was keeping a watchful eye on them after the mention of blood and brains. "Maybe you'll find one you like a few shops down." He smiled down at her as he ushered her out.

Several stores later Molly squeaked in delight when she found a unique brand of tea that looked exciting. Sherlock hid a smile as she went to pay for it and rearranged the shelves to maintain an orderly display.

A furniture store had unique pieces that caught Molly's attention, and she spent several minutes admiring an oblong oval dresser with a wide base at the bottom and six drawers. It was rounded on the corners, all smooth edges and contours. Molly loved it but decided her flat had enough furniture and she really had no place to put it anyway. She gave it one last look and turned away with a regretful sigh. Sherlock surreptitiously took a picture of it and pocketed one of the store's business cards.

At an eclectic shop that sold a mix of old and new furniture, Molly spotted two goldenrod yellow pillows that were used but still in good shape. Sherlock looked over them with an appraising eye.

"Comfortable, fabric is heavy enough to still be in good repair, soft." He ran a finger down the soft velour, then stepped back to appraise the color. "Cheery." He straightened up, put his hands together behind his back and smiled. "I think they'll do just fine."

Molly beamed. "They'll look great on your new couch and tie in with the chair."

Sherlock was waiting for the shopkeeper to ring him up when he spotted Molly looking at her watch. "Do you have other plans today?"

Molly shook her head. "No, actually, I'm just surprised we found what we wanted so quickly. I'll be home sooner than I expected." She schooled her face to hide her disappointment at their efficiency.

Sherlock took a small breath to prepare himself. "Well, I'm happy to continue looking at jumpers. I have no other plans today. Or perhaps you need something for your home?"

Molly's face turned shy. The whole point had been to get pillows, not spend the day keeping Sherlock from cases. "We could keep going…if you want to."

Sherlock smiled. "Great." The shopkeeper began processing his transaction, and Sherlock turned his attention to the register.

After Sherlock had paid and Molly had stuffed both pillows in her bag they set off down the street again. With the primary objective fulfilled, both felt more at ease and able to better enjoy the myriad of wares available to them. Molly spent time looking through clothing racks that caught her interest, while Sherlock browsed through different scarves to see if any appealed.

Eventually, they found the vendors hawking antique jewelry and old accessories from bygone eras.

Molly found herself going through some handmade pendants with cloisonné flowers. She finally chose a wide oval one, white with a multicolored flower bouquet and a bow wrapped around the stems. Sherlock approached behind her and peered over her shoulder to appraise it.

"Someone messed up that flower. The center is too big for a daisy that size. And the color is wrong." He pointed at the center flower, a large white daisy that sported an even larger black circle in its center.

"Hush, Sherlock. I think it's lovely." Molly went to pay for it as Sherlock chuckled.

A few vendor stalls later Molly looked up from a massive bin of old buttons to see Sherlock holding an old-fashioned smoking pipe. He ran his fingers over the wood worn extra smooth over time and held it in one hand halfway up to his mouth, poised as if deep in thought.

"What do you think, Molly?" He kept his profile to her as he asked like he was posing for a picture.

Molly laughed. "You look like a fussy Victorian, Sherlock."

"Oh I don't know, I think it makes me look dignified." Sherlock gingerly placed the pipe end between his teeth.

"I don't think it goes with your coat. Maybe if you had the hat on." Her eyes were sparkling with laughter.

"Hey!" The vendor was leaning over a nearby table stacked with gloves and vintage purses. "You put your mouth on it means you buy it. Pay up."

Molly could see Sherlock's eyebrow rise from across the table they were standing on either side of. She threw a nervous look between them, suddenly worried there was going to be an altercation.

Sherlock had been enjoying himself with Molly, but he was never one to turn away from the possibility of stimulating his intellect in order to avoid brain rot. Or the occasional showing off. He lowered the pipe and quarter turned to stare imperiously at the vendor.

"Are you aware of the vendor law that specifically applies to any item that touches the lips of a person when in use and in this case, old tobacco apparatus such as a pipe?"

His question came at such a rapid-fire pace that the vendor blinked and took a moment to catch up. Sherlock's very demeanor now implied that he was knowledgeable and occupied some kind of position that gave him power in a situation such as this. The vendor swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry.

"Uh…what?"

"When selling items such as this pipe, the vendor in question, in this case you, must provide a clear waterproof coating on the area that touches the lips in order to prevent bacteria transference. Old pipes and similar objects are notorious for spreading disease. In fact, the herpes scare of '73 was caused by an antique cigarette holder with mother of pearl inlay. The protective coating is painted on and becomes impossible to find when dry unless the area is rubbed with a soft cloth in which case it will then roll off cleanly leaving no residue but I'm sure you are already aware of that fact. Since it is early in the day I assume I am the first person to show interest in your tiny little stall full of overpriced wares and I am certain you would have applied such a protective surface to this pipe before putting it out on display. To have failed to do so would indicate that you were lax in your duties as a law abiding vendor and might jeopardize your license to sell in the city and certainly on Portobello road. I'm sure you have not failed to provide the utmost safety for your customers as required by law?"

Sherlock's speech hadn't slowed down; in fact, it may have sped up. Molly could follow it of course, but she spent a lot of time with Sherlock. She kept her face squarely pointed at Sherlock, keeping the best poker face she was able to maintain. Sherlock was still staring at the vendor, clearly waiting for a reply.

"Don't tell me you don't know any of this. I'd certainly hate to report you." Sherlock's tone was regretful.

Sherlock's authoritative stance and commanding aura were doing their work on the vendor. He looked confused but extremely reticent to challenge Sherlock.

"No, of course I do. Just put it on this morning when I was setting up." He gave Molly a tremulous smile that looked more like a grimace; she returned it with an awkward smile of her own.

"Are you sure? Perhaps I should test it…" Sherlock made a motion as if to rub the end of the pipe with a bit of his coat. The vendor almost tipped a table over in his haste to stop him.

"No! No need sir." He reached for the pipe and gingerly lifted it from Sherlock's grasp. "I was only having a laugh, heh, thought you'd join me in it." He was backing away slowly, head nodding rapidly which made him seem to be at once made of jelly and trapped in quicksand. Molly suppressed a smile and began to edge toward the entrance.

"Ah, I see." Sherlock straightened his coat as if that settled the matter. "I didn't get the joke. Perhaps next time you should wink when you joke with a customer. It avoids confusion." Sherlock demonstrated. Molly's lips quivered.

"I certainly will, sir, and I'll go put another coat on this straightaway." The vendor held up the pipe.

Sherlock gave him a solemn nod as if the safety of the country were at stake. Molly was pulling on his arm by now and he finally allowed her to pull him out of the stall and rush him down the street.

"Sherlock, you made all that up." Molly allowed her laughter to bubble out as she hurried him along. She looked back to make sure the vendor hadn't decided to pursue them after all.

Sherlock laughed a low and rumbling sound that spilled out of him. "Of course I did. But it got us out of trouble, didn't it?"

"Yes, but you should know better than to put something like that up to your mouth without buying it." Molly threw a look over her shoulder and kept their pace quick.

"I don't see why I'm not allowed to try it on for size, just like any clothing."

Molly was about to point out that a pipe was not considered clothing when a sudden crash behind them made both Sherlock and Molly spin around.

A vendor was on his back on the pavement, tables and bins overturned and spilling their wares into the street. Pedestrians were scattering to avoid stepping on the merchandise or the vendor as another figure in a dark coat stepped out from the stall.

Sherlock smirked as he watched. "See? Wits over brute force. That vendor probably implied the customer had a mouth brimming with germs."

"Sherlock, all mouths are brimming with germs."

"Still…"

The crowd was pulling back from the altercation, and Molly could see both the vendor still on the ground and the man standing over him turn their heads to look down the street where she and Sherlock were standing, surrounded by other surprised shoppers watching curiously. She had no idea if it was the vendor Sherlock had bamboozled but really wasn't in the mood to find out for sure. He seemed to cause chaos wherever he went and she didn't discount the possibility that Sherlock might get drawn into a fist fight. Just in case, Molly steered Sherlock down a side street lined with larger shops. Sherlock barely noticed. He was too busy being proud of himself.

"I'm having quite a lot of fun Molly; I never knew shopping could be so stimulating."

"You confused that man so badly I thought his head might explode." Molly couldn't keep the grin from her face any longer.

"Sadly I have yet to actually see that happen, but I hope one day…" Sherlock had a grin on his face too.

"Oh, I've seen it! Well, it wasn't confusion it was due to immense pressure when a man got caught between two cars, but still…"

"Why didn't you text me I could have conducted some interesting research on such a case."

"That was before I knew you, Sherlock. Sorry."

"I suppose that's understandable. Though it's hard to imagine such a ti—"

With a smothered gasp that emerged almost in unison, both Molly and Sherlock came to a sudden halt. Their conversation was instantly forgotten at the sight of what lay before them. They were standing in front of a large bookstore, but it wasn't the usual one filled with bestselling paperbacks. Shelves were lined with old dusty hardcover books of every kind. Stacks of them were lined up on the floor. They were clearly old reference books filled with knowledge on every subject known to man and probably a few that weren't.

"Paradise…" Sherlock breathed.

Both Sherlock and Molly took in the sight like a sweets junkie would look at a cake. They both loved books and gathering information. Molly remembered how many of Sherlock's books had been burned.

"Do you want to go in? Maybe we can replace some of the ones—" She didn't bother to finish since Sherlock was already opening the door. Molly gave herself a stern mental note that she didn't need any more books and followed.

An old man looked up from a stack of books at his counter and opened his mouth to greet the new arrival, but Sherlock rushed straight past him before he could utter a syllable. He dashed from row to row, looking for the science and medical sections. Molly greeted the shopkeeper and followed. She hadn't thought about how she would feel if she lost most of her books. They were such good friends to her. She loved knowledge in general and believed in staying well educated in her field. She had spent many a night curled up with Toby, a thick book, and a cup of tea.

Sherlock was pulling down titles he recognized as fast as he could scan the shelves. A stack at his feet was growing taller by the second. His face was suffused with delight and excitement. Molly gave him a fond smile and moved to another shelf to browse as she waited.

Eventually, Sherlock's piling of books slowed and he started pulling down ones he hadn't owned before that looked interesting. Once he got tired of standing he just sat on his stack of eventual purchases to peruse one. Molly found herself engrossed in a historical account of forensic work in the 18oo's. The silence was broken by the occasional turn of a page or another book falling into the stack to be purchased.

"This is fascinating; did you know that dogs were blamed for spreading the Black Plague in the middle ages? Dog killers roamed the streets and killed every dog they saw but they didn't think about all the rats around." Sherlock turned the page on his book.

Molly didn't look up from hers. "They missed what was right in front of them."

Sherlock gave her a considering look. "Yes. It happens. What are you reading?"

"Bone-setter named Mrs. Mapp who was quite famous in the 18th century." Molly still hadn't looked up.

"Mmm, interesting. Bone-setters were the precursors to chiropractors, right?" Sherlock put his book on his pile and came over to Molly. He didn't miss the tiny pile of books at her feet.

"Yes." Molly put her finger in the book to hold her place and looked up finally. She looked at Sherlock's very large pile and then at her own, then sighed. "I'm not supposed to buy any more books. My shelves are full."

Sherlock instantly nodded his understanding. "Well, maybe I can help you cull this pile down a bit." He crouched down and began sorting through the books. "No, you should definitely have the forensics one. The true story of a lady detective lawyer in turn of the century New York City. Interesting. You need that one too. Keep. Keep." He was moving books from her pile to a newly made one, but since none were being rejected they were all being shifted over. "Keep. Keep. This is definitely a good one for you."

He stood up and dusted his hands, then looked down at the pile that had been reorganized and moved from one spot on the floor to another, but ultimately remained unchanged. "Sorry, Molly. I can't help you."

"Fat lot of good you are," Molly laughed.

Sherlock shrugged innocently. "I can solve a case but only if I have the correct data on my hard drive. Often the internet isn't enough or contains false information. Books are so very valuable in the process if you get the right ones. You can never have enough good books."

"True," Molly admitted defeat. "Well, at least my pile isn't as large as yours." She nodded to the large stack behind them.

Sherlock's gaze followed her and his mouth quirked. "Indeed. But I should thank you, life has been so busy since Baker Street was burned that I hadn't given thought to replacing my books yet. " He moved to his pile and, with careful effort, lifted the pile into his arms then balanced it with his chin.

After depositing his pile on the counter before the very surprised clerk, Sherlock paid a hefty sum for his new collection and waited while Molly paid for hers. Sherlock inquired after delivery and was delighted when the old man told him he could hire a local messenger service to bring the very large box of books to his home. He added Molly's on too since they ultimately made little difference to the cost and he could get them to her easily. Molly gave a token protest but decided to go along with it.

As they stepped out of the bookshop and made their way back to the main road, Molly shifted her bag and peered up at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I could have taken my books there weren't that many."

"True. But there were enough to load you down and make it more difficult to shop with me, or possibly eat chips with me." He smiled down at her. "And we can't have that."

"Is that what we're doing now? Having chips?" Molly tried but couldn't quite manage to hide her surprise. Sherlock noted it and checked himself slightly.

"Only if you wish to." He made sure his face was open and easy so she would know she had to option to refuse if she chose. "But...there is a lovely place just up here." He made a slightly awkward motion up the street, then lowered his arm and waited.

Molly looked up at him as he waited, considering it. Long ago he'd asked her to chips and she had refused for exactly one reason. She had been engaged. Now she was no longer engaged or even dating anyone, but she still felt something holding her back. Sherlock's face was getting more nervous by the second as he waited, and she knew it was because he could see her struggling with herself.

That damn phone call. It always came back to that. They no longer mentioned it and she did the best she could to keep it off her mind, but times like this made it hard for her to discern if Sherlock was asking her to chips because he was her friend or if he was going overboard in his attempts to make up for that call. She didn't like the idea of the second one. She wasn't a charity case. She didn't need fake gestures or insincere appeasement. She refused to be relegated to such a place in their relationship. Sherlock had been true to his word and had never broached the phone call topic again, but the after effects still lingered.

Molly took a deep breath and thought about it logically. Sherlock wanted to have chips together. If he was going overboard, at least it was because he cared about her feelings, which was really something considering how he usually was. It didn't matter why he had asked her. All that mattered was that he didn't seem to be faking his concern for their friendship status.

She smiled at him. "Of course. Let's have chips."

His face split into a wide smile as he escorted her up the road to the nearby stall advertising chips.

Once they had placed their orders and moved to a nearby eating area, Sherlock located a quiet corner table amongst the chattering crowds and they settled in to eat. Sherlock made an approving noise with his first bite.

"These are first-rate. Better than the ones down the road from Baker Street." He made a conceding head movement. "Though, Fa—Eurus seemed to enjoy them."

Molly was chewing too and suddenly distracted by that new information. "You had chips with your sister? I thought she was in a secret prison."

Sherlock nodded. "She escaped and came to see me at Baker Street after—after Mary died. Gave me a piece of paper full of deductions and pretended to be Faith Smith, Culverton Smith's daughter. We had chips together and spent much of the night walking."

"Why did you do that?"

Sherlock's mouth curved into a mischievous smile. "Mycroft was watching me with all the government surveillance he could get his hands on. I took Fa—Eurus for a walk and left him a message."

"How did you do that?"

"I used my walking route to spell out certain words."

Molly winced and giggled at the same time. She could easily guess what choice words Sherlock had used. Like certain four letter ones. "You didn't."

"I did." Sherlock popped another fry into his mouth. "He deserved it. Mycroft is always following me, checking up on me—"

"He was worried about you. We all were." Molly's quiet statement halted his momentum. He stopped talking and looked at her in surprise. Molly met his gaze directly, without a trace of timidity or reluctance.

"You were?" He seemed to have pulled only one thing from her interjection.

"Of course. I knew how close you were to Mary. I knew how she died, saving your life." Sherlock's gaze flickered away at that. He looked down at his chips. Molly kept going, not wanting to dwell on that point. "I knew you wouldn't take her loss well, and when I had to tell you that John didn't want any help from you, I knew I had just made it worse." She blinked to force away the moisture she could feel building in her eyes. She wasn't going to cry right here in public.

"I didn't blame you for that. You were only the messenger." His voice was soft.

"Then why didn't you ever come to me for help? Why did you just sink into your drugs and your flat and only return my texts when you wanted me to show up with an ambulance? I know that John was angry with you but I wasn't." Molly took a drink of her water to clear the heaviness in her throat.

Sherlock swallowed too. "I might have reached out, but once I got the message from Mary all my focus went into that. She needed me to take one last case for her and save John Watson. It was all I thought about. It was all I could do right then."

"Are you sure you didn't just use it as an excuse to escape the pain of Mary's death and disappear into drugs?"

Her direct question pushed away any thought of subterfuge Sherlock might have entertained. "I'm sure I did. I was going to stay clean at first. Even went to a counselor for one session. It's true," he told her in response to her shocked look. "But in the end, my demons came for me. It's what everyone expected me to do. And it was too easy to use the case as an excuse. Too easy to retreat into the drugs even before I found a bad guy to pick a fight with. That was why I wasn't even sure if Eurus' visit had been real when it was all over. I was too high."

"Sherlock, you can't do that again. Your body won't take it. You almost killed yourself last time."

"I told you in the ambulance it was all a plan." He didn't mention that he'd had no intention of telling anyone what he was up to. The only reason he had said anything at all was due to the clear distress he had seen her exhibit the further she got into her examination of him that day. Always so capable and insightful, Molly had correctly come to the conclusion that he was weeks away from death if he kept using as he was. Her brown eyes had filled with horror as she listened to his heart and lungs through his shirt with a trembling hand on her stethoscope, fingers clenched around tools as she took his blood pressure and put a flashlight to his eyes. The sight of her that way had shifted something in his resolve. He couldn't let her suffer. He had gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist after the second eye, sure he had heard a small whimper from her, and stared into her eyes…

 _"Don't worry, Molly. It's a plan. It's all just a plan. I'll be fine. Just don't tell John."_

 _She stared back at him, disbelieving. "No plan is worth this, Sherlock. Your kidneys are failing. I see liver damage in the jaundice of your skin and the whites of your eyes. Your blood pressure is sky high."_

 _He nodded, well aware of all these facts. "It's okay. It's part of the plan."_

 _She shook her head slowly, still dumbfounded that he would play games with his own health like this. "Why would you do this?"_

 _"For John. He's my best friend. Molly," He stared into her eyes, his unshaven face inches from hers, desperate to get across to her how important this was. "I have to save my best friend."_

 _The unfeigned intensity in his eyes convinced her that he really did have a plan, but it didn't remove the fear that he was playing with fire this time. It could so easily burn out of his control. She still wasn't sure how exactly this was supposed to help John, or what danger he was in since Sherlock seemed to be the one in jeopardy. She couldn't explain his fierce devotion to his friend, the single-minded intensity that eclipsed his own safety even when John was so angry with him now. But she knew she couldn't talk him out of it. He'd already made up his mind. She dropped her gaze and slowly twisted her wrist from his grip as the ambulance came to a stop at their destination. He relaxed his hand and allowed her to pull free, but he was still waiting for her to reply so she gave a slight nod._

 _"I won't tell John. But Sherlock, I can't help you fake your death if you really are."_

 _He gave a short nod in reply and laid back on the gurney, closing his eyes as if to catch a quick nap. He spoke with his eyes closed. "Alas, this plan is very different in its execution. All I need you to do is report to John how far gone I really am. Thanks for your help, Molly. And for remembering my coat."_

 _He was already assuming the light and careless persona he'd had when she arrived to pick him up, sarcastic and never serious. She knew it wasn't truly him, just a façade he put up when working a case or trying to show he didn't care. The real Sherlock was the one that had just appeared to her but was quickly being buried under layers of distracting mannerisms. Molly turned away and opened the ambulance doors so she could get some much-needed air. Sherlock stayed where he was, giving her space and probably getting some distance so he could prepare for his next role, whatever that was. Heavy hearted, Molly sat at the end of the truck and waited for John._

Molly shook her head, a chip forgotten in her hand. "A plan that almost got you killed."

Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgment. "True. But it was a plan with a purpose."

"Promise me you'll never do anything like that again." He looked at her in surprise. She met his eyes, unafraid. His jaw nearly dropped at her direct assault and demand.

"Well, I don't plan on throwing myself in the way of a serial killer again anytime soon—"

"You know what I mean. No more drugs. No more plans that could get you killed. You have people who care about you and you've finally made some peace with a past you didn't even know was driving you. Promise me you'll never put your life on the line for a case again. Promise me you're done with the drugs for good."

She refused to look away, waiting for his answer. He could feel the obstinate part of himself pulling away, ready to commit to doing such a thing again if he so desired or the occasion called for it. Never mind the fact that he had decided weeks ago he had to find other ways of dealing with life. Accept that life was loss; enjoy what it did give him. Rely on the people he cared about and in turn perhaps give them some support. It was something that he had already decided to commit to himself. Now that he remembered Victor and could piece together how that event had shadowed his life he felt he could lift himself above that suffocating blankness and get to fresh air, a fresh start. But still his contrary impulse was to refuse and reject anyone making such a demand on him. If it had been Mycroft talking he would most certainly have done it.

But this was Molly, and she was making this demand because he mattered to her. Hope and warmth spread through his chest. Did he matter as a friend or something more? Had he snuffed out her feelings for him or did she maybe harbor them deep inside? It was one of his deeper fears that telling him she loved him at the end of the phone call had somehow exorcised that demon and allowed her to move on from him finally. Just in time for him to decide he really wanted her in his life.

But she cared if he hurt himself with drugs, and she cared if he put his life in danger. Surely that meant something. He quickly racked his mind for a way around his promise not to talk about the phone call but came up with nothing that wasn't a pure breach of contract. Besides, he wasn't sure if he was ready for the answer if it wasn't what he hoped for anyway. Molly cared about him as a friend still, and that had to be enough for now. The constant wondering and second-guessing and fear of the unknown that came with feelings and romantic attachments were exhausting.

No, love affairs did not feel boring.

And yet, it made him feel good to give her reassurance he knew would comfort her and know that he meant it. That was something he hadn't experienced often if ever, and he had never realized how moving it felt. Molly mattered to him too.

In the end, he simply smiled at her, placed his hand over hers, and looked her in the eye.

"I promise."

Molly gave him a small smile in return and ate the chip she was still holding in her other hand.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

* * *

Late that afternoon Sherlock was standing in the living room at Baker Street. After a thoroughly enjoyable shopping experience with Molly, he had dropped her off at her flat and returned home. He had shed his coat and jacket and put on his dressing gown, spent some time composing in his bedroom, and now wandered out to survey the progress of the few workmen that remained.

One was rebuilding the shelves now that the back wall had been repaired and painted, which was great because his books would be delivered tomorrow. Another was halfway up a ladder with a paint can and brush, putting final touches on the new window molding as the last one carried out extra equipment they were finished with. Sherlock spun to survey the new couch with the new pillows he and Molly had found, and the yellow chair sitting by the door. His eyes squinted as he stared at the corner between the couch and the door, measuring the space and what might fit there. Baker Street was almost back to normal.

John came up the stairs holding a grocery sack.

"Hello, John. Is Rosie with you?"

"No, I left her with friends. I don't want her anywhere near your flat today."

"Oh? Why is that?" Sherlock's brows came together in concern.

John reached into the bag and pulled out a can of yellow spray paint. "I don't want her near chemicals like this." He gave Sherlock a conspiratorial grin. "Or stray bullets."

After a brief surprised moment, Sherlock chuckled and moved to the desk to retrieve his revolver. He stood in front of the fireplace and loaded it while John uncapped the spray paint and shook it as he walked to the back wall. John located the approximate place that had previously been "decorated" and took aim.

He drew a circle and a smile in yellow and thought briefly about the fun Mary would have watching this. Then he turned and gave Sherlock a look indicating it was ready. He stepped out of the way and watched while Sherlock spun the barrel on his revolver and aimed it carefully.

Two gunshots rang through the flat, startling the workers briefly. Sherlock blew the smoke from the muzzle and smiled happily as the worker on the ladder muttered under his breath and repainted the spot his arm twitch had just ruined.

"Perfect timing John, I just received a letter from Priscilla at Scotland Yard. Seems she doesn't bother coming over if she doesn't think I'll be interested." Sherlock lifted a piece of paper from the desk and unfolded it, crossing over to the mantel as he did. John joined him there.

"Well, she's got a point. It's not worth the trip if you're just going to tell her it's boring and send her packing."

Sherlock gave John a narrow look and returned his gaze to the letter. John folded his arms and looked at it too.

"'A suspected ring of international smugglers moving sensitive information.'" Sherlock read out loud. "'Thought to be working in food or other commercial industry.' What kind of sensitive information? Doesn't that just make them government spies? That's more my brother's area. Boring!"

John gave him a resigned look. "Well, good thing she didn't bother coming in person then. They must be at a dead end if they're taking a chance that you'll help."

"I am only one person, John. I can't take on every case Scotland Yard or the police can't solve, it would fill my every waking hour for years." Sherlock looked at the letter. "Still, I'll keep it around in case I get really bored."

And with that Sherlock turned to the newly finished mantel, picked up the knife already lying there, and stabbed the letter to hold it in place.

"Did I hear gunshots—" Mrs. Hudson entered the room and answered her own question with one look at the wall. She turned to face John and Sherlock, standing on either side of the freshly desecrated mantel which only perfectly served to highlight Sherlock's last action and the knife sticking straight up out of the once undamaged wood. She gave them a long-suffering look of frustration, shoulders bowed and arms limp at her sides, while both men waited for the anticipated scolding. A long moment of silence passed. Even the workers stopped working, staring at their current task intently as they avoided eye contact and tried to be invisible.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I found some nice lamps and a few end tables that might look good in here. Oh, I see you found some pillows with Molly. She has good decorating sense." She headed for the kitchen. "I need a cuppa and you two will join me." She gave them a stern look and went to fill the kettle.

Both men quickly agreed. It was a good deal and they knew it.

A small price to pay for things getting back to normal.

* * *

Sherlock's visit to Eurus the next day was a new kind of normal, and they both were enjoying it. She was sitting in her usual spot when he arrived, but her violin and bow were on the tiny table in front of her. He barely stepped into the room and began to pull his violin out of the bag before she already had hers up to her chin.

"Hello, Sherlock. Glad to see you made it."

He gave her a brief smile as he raised his own instrument into place. "Good afternoon, Eurus. I would never miss a visit."

She didn't react openly to that statement, but her face and stance relaxed. Sherlock tried not to dwell on the fact that even after multiple steady visits there was a part of her that still doubted he would return. After the visit where they played together for the first time, his next visit had been untroubled and full of musical dialogue. They were getting very comfortable with each other in this method, and each was enjoying it. He wondered if she still had trouble distinguishing between laughter and screaming at times. Did she not see how much he enjoyed spending time with her? If not it was something to work on. He played again.

"Let's play some Bach. Perhaps you can help me to understand it better."

Eurus had a tiny smile hidden in the curve of her mouth as she replaced her violin and lifted her bow.

Much later, when they were both at ease and deep into musical dialogue, Sherlock chanced another attempt.

"I wish our parents could see you play. I think they would love it."

Eurus' bow stilled a moment, then resumed. "See me play or see us play?"

"Whichever you like. I'd be happy to play with you, be there with you when they came. If you want that." His attention was fixed on her, studying every nuance of her expression and body language, trying to anticipate her reaction so as not to damage the relationship they had developed. He seemed to be doing that quite a bit lately.

Eurus was studying him as well. "You ask for a lot."

"I know. But they really do care about you and want to see you."

Eurus held the first note she played almost indefinitely, a long and tremoring bow stroke that ratcheted up the tension and suspense. Sherlock knew she was feeling uncomfortably pressured and needed to exert some control over the conversation by making him feel the same. So it was no surprise when suddenly she dropped the note she was holding and began playing a line quickly and aggressively.

"You spend a lot of time thinking about the people who care about me, but are you thinking about those who care about you?" Sherlock didn't answer, just raised his brows in a question and waited. "What if anything have you done about your feelings for Molly Hooper? Have you even discussed how you feel with anyone but me, in the sanctity of a prison? Do you even acknowledge them?"

If Sherlock hadn't been spending so much time recently working through his newly recognized emotions and remembered past, he would have deflected it immediately and gone on the offensive. But channeling his emotions through his violin and then into words with John had prepared him for such a question and it didn't rattle him as it once had. He took a slow measured breath and began to play, going slowly to be able to express himself correctly.

"I acknowledge that I have feelings for Molly Hooper and that I wish to have a life with her."

"You always had them you just hid from them." She was staring straight at him, and he knew she had seen his feelings for Molly long ago. It was why she had even forced the phone call to happen.

"That's true, I did. But I'm not running anymore. I am trying to carefully navigate my relationship with Molly so I don't lose her for good—"

"You're being too careful. You want me to rush into seeing our parents after years, and yet you haven't even resolved things with Molly Hooper yet? You're a hypocrite Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped playing and lowered his violin. Any anger at being called a hypocrite was pushed aside as he looked at her, taking in her rapid breathing and intense stare. She was afraid.

Eurus hadn't lowered her instrument. "Have you even spoken about what happened? Or are you just sweeping it under the rug like you always do?"

Sherlock looked down for a moment before he replied. "I probably deserve that. You're right I have always avoided such things. But this time I would like to talk to Molly about what happened. I want to tell her how I feel."

"Then why haven't you?" The question was quick and sharp.

"She won't discuss it with me, and I agreed in order to maintain our friendship." Eurus was already moving her bow, so he played louder to speak over her. "I am going to talk to her. I just have to figure out a way to approach the subject without breaking my promise. Molly trusts me not to break my word and I'd like to keep that intact if possible if only to prove that she can trust me with her feelings." Eurus was blinking at him now. "Yes, I realize I've created a bit of a problem for myself. I'm new at this."

Eurus looked at him with impatient disbelief. "You want to tell her your feelings but you can't speak about the phone call?"

Sherlock regarded her warily. "Yes. In a nutshell."

"Oh, Sherlock….."

She was shaking her head slowly as if he was an idiot and it was so obvious. Like the missing glass the first time he'd been there.

Still looking disappointed, she waited for him to put it together. He looked at her standing in front of him with her violin on her chin, telling him he was missing the obvious. If she could see a solution he knew enough to believe there must be one. He focused on her and let his brain work the problem.

When it hit him, it was the combination of delight, relief and sheer enjoyment of Eurus' company that made the laughter emerge. It rolled up from his chest and spilled out of him, shaking his shoulders, deep and rich and heartfelt. It lasted for a good minute while his sister watched, a smile playing around her own lips.

When he eventually stopped laughing and raised his beaming face to hers, he finally saw the expression on her face. Tentative joy and hope. Her instrument was lax in her hands, as was his. But they didn't need music to communicate this time.

 _"I made you laugh."_ She was mostly certain, he could tell. But she still had a sliver of doubt.

 _"Yes, you did."_ He felt like he was young again for the first time in years. Before Victor. Before everything had changed.

 _"I love to make you laugh."_ There was sincerity in her eyes, and he could see she was taking the opportunity to enjoy this moment, relishing it instead of dwelling on less happy things. So he gave her a warm smile in return and did the same.

 _"So do I."_

They shared eye contact for a moment, and then Sherlock raised his violin once more.

"I tell you what, sister dear. Let's strike a bargain."

Her eyes were alive with tender delight as she raised hers too. "I'm listening."

* * *

 _ **Poor Sherlock, so lost in trying to deal with romantic entanglement, lol. I had lots of fun writing him and Molly together, they just work so well off each other. He finally has a plan on how to approach Molly Hooper about the phone call and I'm itchy to write it! :D**_

 _ **I am very aware that John and Sherlock's clothes change often in the last montage of TFP to indicate time passing (and lots of other stuff) but I tweaked things to make everything all one scene since it flows together so well.**_

 _ **The real life detective lawyer in turn of the century NYC is the story of Mrs. Grace Humiston. Her remarkable story is laid out in the recently released book Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (the media dubbed her with this nickname and I admit that's why it got my attention, heh) by Brad Ricca and it's quite an interesting read.**_

 _ **The 1800's bone-setter Mrs. Mapp is also a real person, her (small) account is in the book Devils Drugs & Doctors by H.W. Haggard.**_

 _ **Portobello Road is real, as I'm sure many know.**_

 _ **Next chapter should be up next week! :)**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Another fairly large chapter, hopefully it will not disappoint. :) Thank you for the wonderful reviews and support, it really keeps me going.**_

 **Chapter 8**

Mrs. Holmes opened another photo album and sighed. Pictures of Eurus stared out at her, such a beautiful little girl. She tried to imagine what she must look like now but failed every time. Was she a screaming wraith in a straight jacket, a beautiful woman, or had time and isolation ravaged her beyond recognition?

She hadn't looked at these albums for years. She had put them away after Sherlock forgot he ever had a sister, not sure what else to do. And the pictures caused too much pain then anyway after they learned Eurus had died in another fire.

She turned the page and found Sherlock smiling, his curly hair windswept as he posed in front of Musgrave Hall. Mycroft was in the next photo, smiling at the camera with his eyes fixed beyond it at something beyond her view.

How had things gone so wrong? Her children had been special and intelligent, and she had loved each one. But her love never seemed to be enough. Now her daughter was alive in a secret prison, too dangerous to be free, and her son had hidden it from her all these years. Her other son had shut her out long ago and despite her best attempts, she had never been able to find that sweet little boy he had been. Even now, he was half the child he had been and half the man he had made himself into.

"Are you looking at those pictures again?" Mr. Holmes entered the room and frowned down at the book. "I wish you wouldn't, they just make you sad."

Mrs. Holmes sniffed. "I went for years without looking at them. It seems I'm making up for lost time now."

Mr. Holmes sat next to her on the couch and put an arm around her shoulders.

She raised a hand to pat his lightly as she stared at the photos of her children. "I want to see my daughter."

"I know. Give Sherlock time. I know he can be lacking in certain areas," Mrs. Holmes snorted. "But I think he'll pull through for us."

"If he doesn't, I might just hijack a helicopter and go myself." She slid the album onto the coffee table.

He smiled at her fondly as he pictured that. "You don't know where Sherrinford is, you'd need Mycroft with you to give the location."

"Oh yes, I'd kidnap him at gunpoint first. I thought that was a given." Her mouth tilted in a smile despite the frustration in her expression as her husband laughed. She sighed as she thought about what she'd just said. "Where did we go wrong, dear?"

He squeezed her shoulders lightly. "We did our best. Our children are remarkable. But their genius brought challenges we weren't prepared for."

"I thought if I simply loved them enough everything would be okay. But it never seemed to work. I couldn't connect with Eurus like I should have. And I tried, I tried so hard…" Her voice wavered to a stop.

"You did nothing wrong. Our children speak a language we never understood. And when things took a bad turn it was taken out of our hands. I blame Uncle Rudy." Uncle Rudy had been Mr. Holmes' brother, older by quite a few years, and two brothers could not have been more different. "He has much to answer for."

"Why would Mycroft go along with such a plan? Lying to protect us? As if thinking Eurus was dead didn't hurt too? I keep thinking I still could have helped her if only I knew…"

"Mycroft always tried to hide things to preserve peace in the family. Don't you remember him taking the blame for Sherlock stealing sweets, or covering up the time his little brother shattered your best baking bowl doing an experiment? Telling us things he knew would upset us was not his nature. I suppose we should have seen this coming. Mycroft always took the burden on himself." He shrugged. "I think it's how he shows affection, honestly."

Mrs. Holmes sighed. "I'm being too hard on him, aren't I?"

"You have every reason to be upset. Our daughter was taken out of our lives. We grieved as if she were dead. Mycroft needs to know that his actions ended up hurting us, no matter how he believed he was sparing us pain."

"But he also needs to know we love him too."

Mr. Holmes smiled softly at his wife. "I knew you'd get there in the end."

She was opening her mouth to reply when her phone began to ring.

"Oh, is that mine?" Mr. Holmes patted his pants pockets.

"No, it's mine." A brief glance at the screen made her gasp. "It's Sherlock! He never calls! He barely even texts." Mrs. Holmes already had it up to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mother." His deep voice still sounded formal and somewhat stilted.

"Sherlock! Oh, is it time? Are you ready? Wait a moment…" she pulled the phone away slightly to frown at her husband, who was making odd gestures and pointing at the phone in her hand. "What?"

"Put it on speaker phone." He peered at it, perplexed. "Which button is it?" He was already trying to poke at any of them that seemed a likely possibility. She batted his hand away.

"Stop that, no, it's this one." The phone went to speaker just in time to hear Sherlock's impatient sigh come over the line. She held it between them and spoke to it. "Sorry, dear. Can we see her?"

"She is very nervous about a meeting. She won't be verbalizing words."

"Can't she talk anymore?" Mr. Holmes looked like he was already imagining the worst.

"She speaks fine, she just doesn't want to. I am able to communicate with her through the violin, and after some time she has agreed to allow you to observe."

There was a small silence while they absorbed that. The idea that they would only be observers was somewhat upsetting considering how badly they wanted to interact with her. But, picturing Sherlock playing violin with his sister, communicating in a way only they could understand made Mrs. Holmes blink rapidly. Sherlock was so closed off and had been most of his life. Never had she imagined that Sherlock would be able to reach out to someone like that, least of all Eurus. Her eyes met her husband's, and she knew he was thinking the same.

She addressed her phone again. "When can we come?"

"Thursday next seems to be the best date. Mycroft insists on going the official route and getting you the appropriate clearance." Sherlock didn't mention his suspicion that Mycroft was pushing the appointment as far off as he dared without it being noticed.

Mrs. Holmes dearly wanted to push for sooner but kept it to herself. Next Thursday would come soon enough. At least they had a date they could plan on now.

Mr. Holmes was frowning at the phone. "Why is she nervous about seeing her parents? I would think she would want that. We care about her. She's our daughter."

"I've told her that. It's more the possibility that you'll be disappointed with what you see that scares her, I think."

"Impossible." Mrs. Holmes's voice was firm. Mr. Holmes nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see it.

"I'm glad to hear it. I'll be there to help however I can."

Mrs. Holmes and Mr. Holmes traded looks of astonishment. It was lovely to hear Sherlock say such a thing, but it was also quite unexpected.

Sherlock wasn't done speaking. "Please exercise some restraint, rushing in like hysterical parents might only do more harm."

That sounded more like the Sherlock they knew.

"We will remain calm, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes sounded slightly offended. "But you must understand how difficult this has been to find out she's been alive all this time when we could have been a part of her life."

"I understand that," Sherlock's tone had softened slightly. "Eurus has a brilliant mind, but she's quite fragile right now. I don't want this visit to do more harm than good."

"Then we all want the same thing." Mr. Holmes gave a firm nod to make his point.

"Good. I must go now. Mrs. Hudson is letting in the delivery men." His tone was brusque and he was clearly done talking to his parents.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes's voice was soft. "Thank you."

There was a tiny pause before Sherlock replied, and when he did his voice had softened too. "You're welcome."

They hung up the phone and looked at each other. Mr. Holmes put his hand on hers and squeezed it lightly. Years of marriage had provided a language of their own as well. They shared a look full of loss and pain. And hope.

When Mrs. Holmes pulled the photo album back onto her lap, Mr. Holmes stayed by her side and looked at their family photos together.

"Look, they were so cute…"

* * *

Sherlock paced his flat with his dressing gown over his clothes. After his call to his parents, the delivery men had brought up his very heavy box of books. As he filled the new shelves with his newfound library and assorted objects that had been salvaged from the fire he had been summoned to accept another delivery. The men had carefully carried it up the stairs and placed it in the appointed spot, and now Sherlock could actually feel that his flat was both completely back to normal and at the same time much improved.

The kind of messiness that just seemed to come with his day to day life was strewn with the apartment, papers and objects he had been using and laid aside wherever there was a flat surface. He crammed what was left of his salvaged items into the shelves and stepped back. It was almost perfect, given time the shelves would once more be overflowing with his usual items acquired to solve a case, and then they would be just right. His violin lay in its case open and ready to be played, and his music stand was in front of the window sporting his latest composition. The kitchen was its usual mess of science equipment and random experiments. Mrs. Hudson had provided some lamps and additional pillows for the couch. The restored large red rug covered the floorboards, stretching between the couch and chairs. The yellow chair stood at attention by the door. And in a last final touch, Mrs. Hudson had taken in several of the pictures hanging on the wall including Sherlock's favorite one with a skull and had them professionally cleaned and restored. The flat was home again.

Sherlock went to the window and was about to pick up his violin when a man dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks stumped up the stairs carrying a case. Sherlock turned to face him and took in the larger than average case, the man's slicked back hair and clothing meant to make him invisible, and the light dust coating on the knees and lower legs of his pants.

"A puppeteer. Interesting. I assume you are a potential client?"

The man made no reply despite looking very distressed. His eyes flickered to the case in his hand as he raised it a few inches.

"Ah. A ventriloquist. Lovely."

Sherlock moved the chair to its client position and moved toward his own, resisting the urge to escort the man to the door. Perhaps this could still prove interesting. He sat down and texted John as the man opened his case and began to set up his ventriloquist dummy, then the interview began.

By the time John wandered in after cycling over from work, Sherlock was pacing the floor as the dummy watched him. The puppeteer was so invisible behind the chair that when John stood facing it only a black-clad arm could be seen, which was remarkable.

John gave Sherlock a questioning glance.

"Ventriloquist attacked and choked last night behind the club where he performs. His throat is swollen as a result, naturally, so he's temporarily mute." Sherlock hadn't stopped pacing.

John looked at the client chair and its occupant again, then at the operator crouched and kneeling behind the chair so well it could only be described as hiding. "And a bit nervous, looks like."

"You would be too if you had no idea why you were attacked." The dummy turned in its chair to look at John as if rebuking him.

John stared a moment. "Okay." He moved to sit in his chair and was immediately diverted by the chalkboard in front of the fireplace that sported an assortment of odd stick men in various poses. Some had one knee up, others an arm waving what looked to be a pompom or flag, and some had one or both arms raised. One was even down on one knee. "What's this?"

"We had to play a game of charades of sorts for me to understand his message. Each one corresponds to a word or phrase. One of the only reasons I took this case. Though I broke the code in seconds, a bit of a disappointment."

John took a second look at the board and noted that the stick figures were all in various poses that could be achieved by the dummy. Part of him was glad he hadn't been there for that part of the conversation. Pretending he didn't see the arm reaching around the chair was bad enough, watching Sherlock decipher a dummy's interpretive dance was too much.

"So how much have you got?"

"Details on the club, smell off the man who attacked him, and it seems Bobby saved his owner's life."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock pointed to the dummy still sitting in the chair. His head was moving back and forth as they talked, watching each man in turn as they spoke. John's face went perfectly blank.

"The dummy's name is Bobby?"

"Yes. Bobby, this is John Watson. John, Bobby."

John refrained from commenting that only a man like Sherlock Holmes could interact with a wooden emotionless figure with such ease and directed his gaze to the client chair. "Bobby. Nice to meet you." John almost reached to shake Bobby's wooden hand before he decided it was just too awkward and pretended to rub his pant leg instead. "Um, how did you get his name?"

"Oh, that was a simple deduction." Sherlock was still pacing. John was about to press further when he spotted movement from their new client. Bobby's upper body was moving up and down, in…a…bobbing motion. John made a small noise similar to the last muffled honk of a dying goose before shifting his attention with great determination to his best friend.

"So what's our next move?"

Sherlock turned to the client chair. "Bobby, do you and your owner perform anywhere else?"

Bobby's small form popped into a standing position. Another hand came around the back of the chair to lift an arm straight up. Bobby was resorting to code again.

"Yes, good." Sherlock rushed to the board to add more stick figures. John groaned.

* * *

After gathering as much information as they could and performing a sweep of the area in which the ventriloquist (turned out his name was David Higgins) had been attacked, Sherlock stood alone in front of the window at Baker Street and contemplated the traffic below. His phone was in his hand, and he spent several moments contemplating it before he pushed send on the text he had already typed out.

HELLO MOLLY I HAVE YOUR BOOKS SET ASIDE FOR YOU. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PICK THEM UP TOMORROW EVENING AROUND SEVEN AND PERHAPS STAY FOR SOME TEA? –SH

He reread the text after sending it, exhaling a measured breath as he tried to minimize his anxiety. According to his calculations, Molly should be finishing up her shift at Bart's and thus available to read and reply. Still, it took over three minutes for her return text to appear.

THAT SOUNDS GREAT, SEE YOU THEN.

He swallowed, aware that his mouth was dry and his fingers trembling ever so slightly. It's not like he had done anything extraordinary yet, but knowing what he intended to do was enough to bring trepidation. He was taking a big chance and could possibly end up with the very outcome he had been devastated to even think about at Sherrinford. He had no idea how this might conclude, and considering he could predict how people he knew well would react in many different scenarios that was saying something. The thought of Molly gone from his life made the urge to break things resurface.

He closed his eyes, aware that at this moment Eurus was most likely feeling just as on edge. Their deal had been a simple trade. He would tell Molly how he felt and she would allow their parents to visit. Both were committed to fulfilling their part of the contract, but now that a date had been set and a plan put forth it was hard not to feel the pressure of the upcoming meetings. It was no sure thing, dealing with emotions, and it was difficult to learn after almost a lifetime of trying to smother them.

And yet, he still had hope. Whether or not it was a fool's hope remained to be seen.

Sherlock picked up his violin and fetched his newest composition from a desk drawer. He played the notes almost from memory, using the sheet music only for occasional reference and working to make each one just right.

When he was finished, he replaced the music in the drawer and couldn't help returning to the window. He watched the bustle of Baker Street, alive with rush hour activity, and felt removed from it all. He was in a cocoon of limbo, holding on to what he needed in the minuscule amount of time that remained and enduring eternity dreaming about what he wanted.

"Once more into the fray…" The words spun around his head, a few slipping out on a breath to whisper in the quiet space.

It had never felt more apt.

* * *

The next evening, Mrs. Hudson let Molly in the front door and greeted her cheerfully. They traded a few excited comments about pillows and furniture before Mrs. Hudson told Molly to go on up.

"Oh, no I can't join you two tonight." Mrs. Hudson gave her a feeble smile. "I have another engagement calling me."

"Oh? What's that?" Molly asked with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson hesitated. "Umm, heating pad. My hip is acting up." She didn't mention that Sherlock had specifically disinvited her from this particular tea party.

Molly gave her a look of confusion, considering Mrs. Hudson was walking without even the slightest sign of a limp. "Oh. Well, I hope it feels better soon."

"Thank you, dear, go on up." Mrs. Hudson gave her a small wave and disappeared into her own flat. Molly climbed the stairs and paused at the door. Sherlock had his back to her and was looking out the window.

"Sherlock?"

He turned at once to greet her, almost too quick and eager. "Molly, glad to see you made it. I have your books here." He gestured to the coffee table, where Molly's books were stacked precisely on the end closest to the yellow chair. "I'll just check on the tea." He all but ran into the kitchen and was loading the tray when Molly's surprised exclamation made him almost drop the teacups even though he was anticipating it.

"Oh my god, Sherlock you bought it!" She was staring at the new dresser that now stood next to the yellow chair. Oblong and oval, curves and smooth corners, quirky and unique. It stood out in the flat and yet it also seemed to belong there. It fit perfectly with the yellow chair and created a cozy corner where before there had been piles and stacks of old dusty newspapers and case or research related documents.

Sherlock crept out of the kitchen clutching the tray. "Yes. I thought maybe it would go nicely next to the chair." He had a guarded look on his face she couldn't quite decipher until he spoke again. "Are you angry? I know you how much you loved it."

"No, I'm not upset. Someone should enjoy it and at least I get to see it now." She smiled at him and turned back to look at it. "It does look lovely there."

Sherlock's shoulders lowered several inches. "Glad to hear that, because you're sitting in the yellow chair." He deposited the tray on the coffee table and moved around to sit on the couch nearest the yellow chair, then poured her a cup of tea and made sure the lemons and sugar were in reach.

Molly shook her head with a smile, dropped her bag on the floor and slipped into the yellow chair to prepare her tea the way she liked it.

They settled into an easy conversation about Sherlock's most recent case with the ventriloquist (Molly burst into laughter at the thought of it) and a few interesting post-mortems Molly had performed recently. Sherlock appeared to be at ease and comfortable but somehow kept flipping his spoon off his saucer onto the table or rattling his teacup more than usual. Molly noticed it with some concern.

"Are you all right? You seem nervous."

Sherlock was retrieving his spoon from the biscuit plate, which had been the landing strip for its latest flight. "I'm fine. There's a lot going on at the moment. Eurus has agreed to allow our parents to visit, and there is much riding on the outcome of such an occasion." He slid his tea away and flexed his fingers before putting his hands together in his lap, then finally leaned back on the couch and met her gaze.

She was looking at him with sympathy. "Is she afraid?" He nodded. "I suppose that's to be expected. But there's no point in living in fear. It does nothing but hurt you in the end." Her eyes dimmed somewhat as something flitted across her mind.

Sherlock was lost in his own thoughts. "I suppose you're right." His phone rang, and after a glance at it Sherlock stood with some irritation and excused himself.

He was in the kitchen by the time he had the phone up to his ear. "What?"

"Yeah, sorry to bother you, but did you and John take a case about a puppeteer or something?" Greg's voice was mixed with the background noise of the police station.

"Not a puppeteer, a ventriloquist. Not too fascinating except for his mode of communication at the time and the fact that the attacker was clearly looking for something the victim didn't have." Sherlock cast an anxious look at the other room, frustrated at the interruption.

"How's that?"

"David was attacked and choked enough to incapacitate him, when the attacker was sure he was close to unconsciousness and wouldn't be any trouble he opened David's case to search through it. But once the perpetually smiling face of his dummy came into the light it was enough to rattle the attacker and scare him away." Sherlock's speech was approaching light speed as his rush to be done with Greg took over.

"Oh, interesting. Well let me know if you find anything thing else on this one, my guys have close to nothing."

"Naturally. I'll let you know."

"Great thank—"

"Goodbye, Greg." Sherlock hung up the phone and moved around the corner back to Molly, who had finished her tea and had opened one of her books to look through. She smiled up at him as he returned.

"Hope you don't mind if I read a bit, I've been dying to get into this one."

He clutched his phone in both hands, a fake smile plastered on his face. "No problem at all."

"Thanks," She went back to reading as she slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet under herself, settling in comfortably. Sherlock stood awkwardly for a moment before he wandered to the bookshelves and selected a book to read himself. He sat back on the couch and had just opened it, ready to stare at the pages blankly and wonder how exactly to start things with Molly, when his phone rang again.

"For God's sake…" He jumped back up and pulled his phone out again, hastening back to the kitchen. He was ready to threaten Greg with disembowelment if he called one more time, but it was John. That changed his concern level to at least moderate. "John? What's wrong?"

"Hey, sorry to call but how can you tell if a diaper rash is just a diaper rash or an allergic reaction?"

"John, aren't you a doctor?" Sherlock's tone was laced with incredulous annoyance.

"I'm a doctor, but pediatrics isn't my specialty."

Sherlock's nerves stretched to a breaking point. "Have you been attempting to sing her lullabies again? That alone is enough to make me break out in hives."

There was a moment of shocked silence. "What is your problem today—oh, my God, is she there? Are you doing it right now?"

"I would if people would give me half a chance," Sherlock growled into the phone. He was standing by the kitchen table again, contemplating his microscope and wishing he didn't feel like he was under it at the moment.

"Right, sorry." John put his hand over the phone and addressed Rosie, who was lying on her changing table kicking her feet. "Rosie, he's doing it! Never thought we'd see that day!" Rosie gurgled and kicked, and he swore he saw Mary's smile in the grin she gave him. He put the phone back to his ear. "Okay, I'll clear off. Hey, tell me what happens, okay?"

"That's if I ever speak to you again." Sherlock hung up on John's laughter and with great difficulty placed the phone on the table instead of throwing it as he felt like doing. He looked up just in time to see Mrs. Hudson peeking in through a crack in the door that entered into the kitchen. Her expression was of questioning delight, and it was clear what she was inquiring about.

In answer he silently brandished the revolver lying on the table, waving it with the barrel pointed at the ceiling as a simple but effective warning. Mrs. Hudson just gave him an unimpressed smirk and quietly slid the door shut. Sherlock could hear her stealthy progress down the stairs and how it was interrupted by her phone going off, which was probably John. Sherlock repressed a guttural snarl.

It took Sherlock a moment to calm down and prepare himself before he went back to the living room. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But as he came around the corner just the sight of Molly reading with her bare feet tucked under her, reading a book in the yellow chair that fit her so well made him refocus and recommit to his plan. She looked natural there, like she belonged in his flat. She belonged in every part of it, but especially in this quiet little corner that he had made up to fit just her.

She must have felt him looking at her because she laid a finger on the page to hold her place and looked up at him. She looked relaxed and glowing, even as her face shifted to mild concern.

"Sherlock, are you okay? Is there something you want to talk about?"

He couldn't have asked for a better window of opportunity, so he quickly moved to the couch to sit on the end nearest her. "Yes, actually. Um, Molly…" He looked straight at her as if addressing someone whose name he didn't want to forget, stilted and formal. Her forehead was already creasing in concern at such a change. "I wanted to…discuss...that phone call."

Her eyes instantly flashed with anger as her posture stiffened. "I told you I never want to talk about that again." Her tone was final and a fierce warning to retreat or pay the consequences.

Sherlock immediately nodded. He didn't want her to leave, possibly for good, and he had expected that response. It was probably better this way. "You're right, you did. I apologize."

She accepted that with a nod of her own and moved to fill the stilted silence by going back to her book. But Sherlock could tell her eyes weren't moving back and forth in actual reading but more likely staring at the page and taking nothing in. It gave him some courage for his next move.

"Do you mind if I play for a while? I'm writing a new piece I'd like to work on."

Molly spoke to her book. "Not at all, this is your flat."

"Thank you." Sherlock went to his music stand, unable to stop talking as he tried to fill the silence as well. "It's a piece with three movements; I have two of them nearly perfect." After arranging the sheets of his newly composed music he lifted his instrument and bow, took a breath and began to play.

Molly stared blankly at the pages of her book, fighting down a lump in her throat. How could he so casually bring that up and then move on from it so easily? Obviously, it didn't affect him nearly as much. She kept her head down and worked to maintain at least an outside appearance of calm, hoping to get back to reading in order to divert herself. Sherlock was playing beautiful music and that removed the pressure of speaking, perhaps she could push this backslide out of her mind quickly. She let the music flow over her.

It was a lovely composition, really. It soothed and delighted her with its simple yet beautiful sound. It had a steadfast and reliable through line that at the same time spoke of gentleness and compassion, quirkiness and strength. It settled into her chest and warmed her. She could feel it helping her tension seep away. Maybe it would still be okay. Maybe the evening hadn't been ruined. It was enough to make her lift her head and look at Sherlock, fully expecting to see his back since he usually played facing the window.

But he wasn't. He was facing her with his back to the window, looking right at her. He wasn't even facing his music stand as he played from memory. Her surprised gaze met his as he continued to play, variations and repetitions of the same melody filling the room. And once she looked at Sherlock's face she couldn't look away.

His eyes were lit with intense emotion, his face filled with an almost indefinable yearning quality she had never seen him display. He never looked away, he never missed a note as he moved his bow, and somehow emotion was emanating from him in waves. Molly's throat caught and she forgot to breathe for a moment. She could feel her heart starting to pound in her chest, painful with her own long-buried hopes and yearning.

Her eyes flickered to the music stand behind him, and the title of the piece that was written at the top in flourished letters large enough for her to make out from her chair. Molly gasped.

 ** _MOLLY_**

It was for her. It was her. The melody was Sherlock's assessment of who she was, how he saw her. And judging from the look on his face, the naked emotion in his eyes, he had a very favorable view of her. Molly returned his gaze with shocked bewilderment.

Sherlock reached the end of the first movement and paused just long enough to indicate that he was beginning the second movement before continuing.

And Molly felt her heart break in two.

The second movement was short strokes and mournful minor key. It was tense and unsettling, filled with anxious tension and agonizing pain. Molly could see Sherlock's pain clearly on his face, and without any warning, that day rolled back over her.

 _"Please, just say it."_

 _"Molly, no, please, no, don't hang up! Do not hang up!"_

 _"Molly…Molly, please…"_

She didn't realize she had tears in her eyes until Sherlock became too blurry to see. She blinked rapidly, not wanting to miss a second of him. She had heard the desperation in his tone; she'd known something was wrong. She had wondered, but his visit after in the lab had made it quite clear that she had been simply wishing. Still, she knew he cared about her as a friend and it would certainly matter to him if she died or not. She had just been dreaming, a moment's indulgence just like her asking him to say it like he meant it.

She was just wondering if perhaps she had been wrong to discount it so quickly when Sherlock transitioned from short high suspenseful notes to slow, poignant ones that slow built on each other. As he did, he began a slow creep toward her with small measured steps. He closed the distance between them, still holding her eyes with his own, pulling them together with sheer magnetic willpower and emotion. When he reached her, still playing, he slowly knelt on one knee and played for her, her own serenade of memory and feelings, and much of it was coming from him. He was still holding her eyes with his when the melody built up to a sweetly agonizing crescendo of musical loss, beauty and pain then held the last note on a quivering sustained moment that slowly ebbed away.

Before the note faded, before the silence could encroach again, the words were slipping out of her mouth on a whisper. They were filled with longing and even a hint of begging. Her face still reflected a moment of disbelief and doubt, as if it was too good to be true.

"S—say it, Sherlock… Say it."

Sherlock lowered his violin and bow together and reached down to blindly lay them on the floor next to her chair. He still hadn't broken their eye contact, and as he moved even closer, his face stopping within inches of hers, he only broke it now to look down at her face and back up before he replied.

Sherlock's heart was pounding too, his breaths shallow and quick. It had been so hard to say it on the phone, until the last time when it just slid out of him, but this time it wasn't difficult at all. He looked at her face, unable to muffle how he felt, and for once he didn't want to.

"I love you…Molly Hooper…" His voice was soft and tender.

Her breath caught, suspended between one moment and the next as she froze, trying to conceive it as reality and at the same time make it last forever. But Sherlock had no such compunction. He reached out and put both hands on either side of her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he pulled her closer and leaned in so they met halfway. His lips moved to capture hers with impatient greed, and hers were only too willing to comply as Molly's hands went to his shoulders, fingers splayed to feel all they could.

Their mouths moved with one another in hungry blissful motions until Sherlock finally broke the kiss and moved back a few inches to look at her. Her lips were red and swollen and open, her eyes far away as she tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Sherlock couldn't hold in anything anymore it seemed because as he gazed at her, all he could do was plead for the one thing he desired above all else.

"Molly…please…" His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. He needed to hear it as badly as she had, maybe even more than that day. He looked at her with such naked vulnerability that Molly instantly took pity on him, sliding her hands up his shoulders and to his neck so they could slide into his hair. She didn't break their eye contact either.

"I love you, Sherlock."

His gusted sigh of relief was interrupted by her lips.

It was a long time later when they were partially reclined on the couch together that she asked him what the third movement of the musical piece named after her was like.

"I don't know," His eyes were twinkling with mischief. "That part is still a work in progress."

"Maybe I'll have to give you some inspiration then," She smiled sweetly at him and drew him in for another kiss.

* * *

 _ **Awww these dorks give me warm fuzzies! Still a few more chapters to go, thanks for reading! :)**_

 _ **Note:**_

 _ **The first movement of Sherlock's composed piece entitled Molly is inspired by the music that plays during Sherlock and Molly's scene in the hallway in TEH. It is the 1:02-2:00 portion of the aptly named #Sherlock Lives on the Season 3 soundtrack. This particular theme seemed very fitting as a musical depiction of Molly because it is simple and yet very beautiful and heartfelt, a perfect description of Molly Hooper. Of course, it would sound different on a solo violin. Hopefully your imagination can get you that far, I would love someone to adapt and play such a piece but I lack the skills.**_

 _ **The second movement is basically the song Pick Up on the Season 4 soundtrack if you can imagine it without the percussion and multiple strings.**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Thank you for all your wonderful reviews and support! You guys are the best. I always want to respond and then I write a chapter instead, heh. My reviews are like novels... But yours are so appreciated! :)**_

 _ **This chapter is a big one, hope you enjoy it!**_

 **Chapter 9**

Somewhere in between eager, wondering kisses and moving from the chair to the couch, after they were turned facing each other and Sherlock's jacket had somehow disappeared but before hands had gone wandering further than shoulders and neck, Molly's fingers lingered at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. There was a sudden pause as he stilled, his body stiffening, not pulling away but not welcoming the motion either. He looked at her and she returned his gaze, each aware that something had just changed.

"What's wrong?" Molly's fingers left his buttons and rose to his jaw line instead, her eyes heavy-lidded but concerned as she waited for his answer.

Sherlock hesitated. "I'm sorry; I just want to do…this…right." His eyes skittered away from hers, betraying his nervous anticipation of her answer.

Molly let that sink in. Her fingers on his jaw line had been softly caressing his skin, but now they put a gentle pressure to bring his eyes back to her. "Do…this right?" Her other hand gestured to the minimal space between them to indicate their current activity. "Or, do us right?"

"Us." Sherlock was showing a bit more confidence now that Molly wasn't showing anger or displeasure in his remark. "It's too soon. I don't want to rush this. I know that we've known each other for a very long time now, and the time passage would more than indicate we could proceed, but we were colleagues and conspirators and friends and this is a very different interaction. We only just acknowledged how deep our feelings go and—" Sherlock's rambling came to an abrupt stop as Molly put her fingers over his mouth.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I understand. And yes, I don't want to rush it either. I want to do this right." Sherlock's lips caressed her fingers as he smiled underneath them, and Molly repressed a shiver of delight. Sherlock looked much more relaxed now, so she removed her fingers and draped her arms over his shoulders. "But please don't make me stop this," she kissed his lips lightly "kind of" she gave him a firmer kiss "getting us right." She hovered her lips over his as she breathed the last words.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Sherlock closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers.

Kisses slowed somewhat as they settled onto the couch together to talk. Now that the ice had been broken Sherlock told Molly a bit more about the phone call and his fear that their friendship had been ruined beyond repair just as he realized what he felt for her. Molly was able to tell him how it had left her hurting and yet almost convinced that he might just care in a way more than a friend, until his stilted apology at the lab.

"But I told you I wasn't sorry it happened!" He protested. Molly stifled a giggle at his indignation. It was clear he thought that should have told her everything she needed to know.

"You also said you wouldn't have done it if Eurus hadn't forced you to." Molly's look, even while trying not to laugh, indicated that he should understand the harm such a statement could do to his prior one.

Sherlock considered it for a moment and moved his head back and forth to concede that point. "Okay, I might have accidentally implied that I would never ask you to say that in any circumstances except under threat of death. That's not quite how I meant it." He peeked at Molly through his lashes to gauge her mood and was reassured to see her silently giggling, her eyes bright. "I only meant that without Eurus putting certain things in motion I may not have realized it consciously or acted on it fast enough, if ever." His face was almost sheepish at admitting such a thing.

Molly's eyes were softly shining. "I'd like to meet your sister sometime, to thank her."

"Maybe I can talk her into that, eventually. She does seem to be particularly invested in the idea of you and me…" Sherlock's finger was tracing her lips as his eyes took in every bit of her face. Molly beamed.

After a passionate resolution to that particular topic, Molly asked Sherlock about the third movement of the song he'd written for her. His reply led to a bit more passionate resolution. Once they had calmed down enough, they purposely turned the topic to less stimulating ones as they cuddled on the couch. Both were enjoying their newfound intimacy and neither wanted to end the evening, so they settled for talking and soaked up the other's presence. They naturally drifted to forensics and deduction for conversation.

Eventually, as the evening gave way to night, Molly began to doze. Her head, already on Sherlock's shoulder, grew heavier and heavier and even though she tried to fight it she fell asleep sometime during Sherlock's long-winded discourse extolling the sadly ignored virtues of tobacco ash on his website.

She was briefly roused as she felt herself lifted into someone's arms. The scent of Sherlock enfolded her as she breathed in the smell of his shirt.

"Sherlock?" she mumbled drowsily, barely awake.

"Shhh,…it's okay." He was striding toward the back of the flat. "You get my bed tonight. It's too late to go home." He shouldered the door open wider so he could fit through without bumping her legs on the frame and laid her gently on the rumpled, unmade bed. He pulled the sheet and blankets up over her and turned to leave.

"You don't have to go. There's plenty of room for two." Molly's voice was quiet but clear enough for him to know she was awake enough to mean it. He smiled.

"No, you get the space tonight. I insist." He kissed her temple and left the room. Molly breathed in the scent of him on the sheets and wondered if this was his way of making it up to her for the night she had let him have her room and slept in the spare bedroom. The spare room had a much smaller bed and he had needed the leg room since he was so much taller. Besides, he had just faked his death and was leaving his life behind to face many nights of unknown sleeping arrangements and certain danger.

As she sunk further into the mattress, cocooned by the very smell of him, she realized what an intimate act it was to sleep in someone else's bed. Head to toe caressing the same sheets another had repeatedly graced with their essence. If Sherlock was happy to sleep on the couch tonight, after all that had happened between them and with its less than desirable leg room, maybe the reason he wanted to sleep in her bed hadn't been the one he gave her long ago… She attempted to make a mental note to ask him in the morning as she cuddled his pillow and dropped into sleep.

After clearing up the living room minimally, Sherlock tiptoed back into his room to exchange his suit pants and shirt for loose fitting pajamas and a dressing gown. Molly never stirred, but he could hear her deep breathing as he moved around the room. It was new and yet reassuring because it was Molly. He felt a bit high, like he was pleasantly buzzed but not in the danger zone. The evening had left him with a natural high that was similar to solving a case but infinitely more satisfying. Even the high that came from solving crimes and superior intellect faded somewhat quickly. But just knowing that Molly Hooper loved him too was comforting and exhilarating. It settled into his chest and stayed instead of rushing through his veins and dissipating.

Before he left he stood by his bed and looked down at the woman asleep in it. Her hair lay over her cheek in a way that made her look more fragile and beautiful than usual, and he already thought her beautiful. Or maybe it wasn't her hair and more because her lips were slightly parted as she breathed, and he had fresh memories of how they tasted. Maybe it was just the sight of her form in his bed, intimate and trusting and so right. She fit everywhere in his home. In his life. He tried not to think how else his gamble tonight could have ended. It might have been much more difficult staying away from the drugs no matter what he'd decided or promised.

He ran a gentle finger down her cheek. "Good night, Molly Hooper." And then, almost unheard, "Thank you."

Committed to capitalize on the great boon he'd inexplicably been awarded, he quietly closed the door to his room and strode down the hall. He found a blanket, returned to the couch, fluffed up his new yellow pillows with a smile, and settled in to get some sleep.

* * *

When Molly woke, it was with a niggling certainty that she wasn't in her own bed. The sounds on the street outside were different; the light diffused into the curtained room instead of falling through naturally. She inhaled and with the smell of Sherlock instantly the night before came back to her.

Her eyes popped open. She, Molly Hooper, was in Sherlock's bed. He had played his violin for her, told her he loved her, kissed her silly and she'd loved every minute. It was unbelievable. It was brilliant. It was wistful, ignored, unattainable dreams come true. Molly chewed her lower lip slightly, feeling a thrill rush through her body. She threw off the sheets and climbed out of the bed, realizing that she had slept in her clothes and they were now wrinkled and uncomfortable.

Her eyes fell on a chair standing between the bed and the wall, perfectly placed to catch her eye before she left the room. There was a purple silken dressing gown draped over the back of it. Molly blushed at the thought, but in the end she stripped her wrinkled clothing off and laid them on the bed, then slid into the dressing gown and tied the belt around her waist. It felt much better than her clothing, but so foreign standing in Sherlock's bedroom. This definitely went on the list of things she'd never thought she'd be doing.

And somewhere out in the flat was the other one.

She opened the door and padded down the hallway, lips twitching as she tried to repress the thought.

Sherlock was sitting at the table reading the newspaper when she entered the kitchen. He looked up immediately, smiling, and laid the paper aside. "Good morning, Molly."

"Good morning," She suddenly felt bashful in the bright morning light, standing in Sherlock's kitchen wearing a silky robe. But the look on Sherlock's face went a long way in dispelling that. He looked positively blissful as he got up from the table and gave her a kiss. She smiled to herself, excessively pleased despite the feeling that another shoe was hovering somewhere nearby.

"Mrs. Hudson brought tea. Seems she does every morning, but this time it was quite early. I could ask her about breakfast if you're hungry, or I have bread for toast. I think." Sherlock led her to the table and pulled out her chair before returning to his seat.

"Tea is fine. I need to get going soon, and I'm not sure I want Mrs. Hudson to know I'm here this morning."

In answer, Sherlock pointed to the tea tray on the table, which was bearing two tea cups. "I assure you she usually only brings me one."

Reality crashed down on her. "Oh, god…" Molly hid her face in her hands. "Did you tell her?"

"Not a word," Sherlock promised. "But she's very keen to know what happened with your visit last night. She probably stayed up all night waiting to see if you left." Molly's face was still covered, but a strangled sound emerged. He leaned across the table and gently pulled a hand down from Molly's face so he could see an eye. "Don't be embarrassed, Molly, we didn't even do anything last night."

"I know, but it looks like we did!" Molly put her hand back as Sherlock chuckled.

"If I were to publicly broadcast to our friend network that we have done nothing untoward, would it make you feel better?"

"No, it would make me more embarrassed!" Molly's voice rose just considering such a possibility.

"We have nothing to be ashamed of, and it's no one's business what we do. Besides, who cares if people think we're sleeping together when that's going to happen sooner or later anyway?" Sherlock looked utterly bewildered that this was an issue at all.

His casual assertion that their relationship was going to progress naturally went a long way in soothing her nerves. She was now involved with Sherlock Holmes. It was unbelievable, but it was real. Molly sighed and lowered her hands. "You're right."

"Yes, I am." Sherlock gave a nod of approval. She smacked his arm across the table, making them both laugh.

Shortly after Molly finished her tea she attempted to straighten out her hopelessly rumpled clothing and put it back on. Sherlock escorted her to the door, noting how Molly was carrying her shoes so that she would make less noise on the stairs. He decided not to comment. They agreed her new books were welcome to stay at Baker Street for the time being, and Molly shouldered her bag. They stopped at the door for a moment, neither really desiring to be apart.

"Will I see you tonight?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"If you aren't on a case or anything, I'm working a short shift today."

"Wonderful. Maybe dinner this time?" His eyes were bright, the smile almost permanent.

"That sounds lovely. Text me?" Molly realized she too had a permanent smile. Oh god, he was going to kill her before they ever had a chance to do anything. Not even her wildest dreams had been this good because the real thing made her heart swell and threaten to explode and she had never been able to realistically picture Sherlock so smiling and happy, much less because of her. Poor Tom had never come close to this.

"Definitely," Sherlock leaned down to kiss her, and she pushed up on her toes to help.

"Okay. Bye, Sherlock." She gave him a tiny smile and left to tiptoe down the stairs.

Sherlock lingered in the doorway and watched her go. Once, long ago now, he had said goodbye to Janine in a similar but fake way and promptly slammed the door once she left, eager to get down to business. It could not have been more different than this time when he enjoyed being with Molly so much he was sorry to see her leave. He was mildly surprised to realize he was looking forward to tonight, even though there was no case, no intrigue, and no promise of adrenaline. Just Molly and her sense of humor, her heart, her caring. Just time with Molly. He realized he was smiling again.

The thought intruded that if Molly was faking her feelings for him in an attempt to gain access to somewhere he would be devastated. He didn't think for a moment that Janine's feelings were as deep, but it still must have hurt. He took note of it and logged it in his mind as something he would never do again to accomplish a case. Feelings might be a human error, but ones like these should not be exploited. Janine hadn't deserved it, and she had made it clear if he'd told her the truth she might have helped him anyway since it was later revealed that she too was under Magnussen's thumb. Molly had been suitably horrified at his actions, worse than John, and though they had never spoken of it out loud, he could tell she had talked to his best friend. He tried not to remember the look on her face back then, her disappointment and revulsion at someone being used in such a manner. No. Never again.

Besides, Molly would kill him now. And he had no desire to romance anyone but her.

He cast one last look down the stairwell and quietly closed the door.

* * *

Sherlock had just emerged from his bedroom dressed for the day when Mrs. Hudson tapped on the door and gave her customary "woo-oo" call to alert him to her presence. Sherlock noticed how she scanned the room looking for Molly before she moved into the kitchen. Molly must have been very stealthy in her departure. Mrs. Hudson beamed at Sherlock like a proud mother hen before gathering up the tea tray.

"I see Molly stayed the night, things went well then?" She placed the two tea cups on the tray with a victorious smile.

"Yes, but Molly is a little nervous about appearances so please don't mention it to anyone. Besides, I was a perfect gentleman." Sherlock was straightening his coat and buttoning it up. Mrs. Hudson gave him a look that implied she had never attached the term "gentleman" to him before but didn't labor the point. Sherlock's phone pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket.

"But you two are an item now?" Her face was hopeful.

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes, we are."

Mrs. Hudson hefted the tray, satisfaction apparent in every motion. "Good. But this is Molly Hooper we're talking about Sherlock, my fellow Godmother to Rosie, and my very good friend." She marched up to Sherlock and put herself right in his space, startling him with the closeness and forcing him to look her in the face. Her expression reminded him of the day she'd tricked him into dropping his gun so she could threaten him with it. She leaned close and enunciated her words for effect.

"Don't cock this up."

Under the onslaught of her eyes boring into his, Sherlock made every effort to appear unflustered at the sudden change in tone but had the feeling he failed.

"I have no intention of doing so, Mrs. Hudson." He briefly met her eyes again before looking away.

"Good. I want you both happy." And with that, she left the flat.

Sherlock stared after her a moment, then diverted himself by checking his phone. Greg was asking him to give advice on a case. He gratefully texted back and contacted John.

* * *

It was a bit of a surprise to receive the location. Twenty minutes later Sherlock met John, who was waiting at the top of Portobello Road. They fell into step together and proceeded down the street, heading toward the police tape barricading a vendor stall further down.

"Weren't you and Molly here a bit ago?"

John had an air of anticipation about him that Sherlock ignored.

"Yes. We bought my pillows just over there." Sherlock gestured as they passed the store.

John grinned and waited. Sherlock spent his time scanning storefronts and vendor stalls. Finally, John broached the subject Sherlock knew he was dwelling on.

"So, how did things go last night?" He looked indecently smug, prompting Sherlock to give him an innocent questioning look of ignorance.

"How did what go?"

"Don't even start, Sherlock. I'll just call Mrs. Hudson."

"Fine," Sherlock relented. He was surprised at how close to his chest he wanted to hoard this development. As if it were a sacred thing he didn't want spoiled. "Things went…well."

"I knew it!" John was delighted. He nudged Sherlock with an elbow. "Did things go really well?"

Sherlock came to a halt in the middle of the road. John stopped in surprise and gaped at Sherlock's offended look.

"John, I acknowledge that we are best friends, but that is absolutely none of your business."

"Oh come on, you can tell me…" John's voice faded as he looked into his friend's face and realized how serious he was. "Ok, don't tell me. That's fine. But you and Molly are…good?"

Sherlock's face softened a bit. "Yes. I think we are."

John nodded. "I'm glad. I never thought you'd get this far." They turned to walk down the street again, and John added one last thought. "Just, please Sherlock, don't cock this up."

Sherlock stopped immediately, his jaw dropping in true drama queen fashion. "Why does everyone assume I'm going to?" Sherlock looked severely affronted as he began walking—or rather, stalking—again.

"Because they know you…" John was moving faster to keep up since Sherlock's annoyance was making his strides longer. "And they care about Molly."

"Well, at least we have that in common. I have no intention of ruining anything, and I only wish to make Molly happy. Now, let's go solve a murder." Sherlock ducked under the police tape and held it for John, who smiled and shook his head then followed suit. Greg was waiting for them several feet in.

Greg showed them the murdered vendor, who had been setting up his stall in the early morning hours when few others but other vendors were around. A woman a few stalls down had heard a crash and seen two men in dark clothing running away. A typical robbery. Except that the woman swore she had heard raised voices for at least a few minutes before the shot, and most robberies of this type never lasted that long or involved loud discussion.

Then there was the vendor's stall. It was clear he had been setting up for the morning, and various boxes were scattered around. But many of them had been tipped over or emptied all over the ground; even the jewelry already set up on a table had been disturbed. Greg had worked with Sherlock long enough to listen to his gut when it told him something wasn't quite ordinary and had called him in to decipher what it was.

Sherlock cased the crime scene, using his magnifier to inspect smaller details. John and Greg made small talk and waited.

"Nothing was stolen from these boxes. Everything pulled out of them would fill them up if put back," Sherlock's tone was speculative.

"That's what I thought too." Greg agreed.

Sherlock's gaze traveled over the table that was strewn with jewelry. "They only looked at a few of these displays."

"What's that?" Greg moved over to look too.

Sherlock pointed. "This tray, this rack, and that tray are all perfectly undisturbed. Set up in an attractive manner to attract shoppers." He pointed at three others. "But these have been searched. See how this one is jumbled together and those are each shifted out of line? This vendor was very particular in how he arranged his product. Equidistant and perfectly placed. No, someone searched this rack and those trays after he set them up this morning."

Greg peered at the rack. "Okay, I wondered about the trays because they really showed it, but that rack completely slipped past me."

"Naturally." Sherlock ran a finger across the various chains with pendants suspended that hung from the rack, comparing it to the other trays and the undisturbed ones.

"What were they looking for? All the money in the till is gone, but that can't have been all they wanted. Maybe a bauble for the girlfriend?" Greg shrugged.

Sherlock shook his head. "The robbery is to disguise the greater motive. Even in the morning before shoppers arrived there was a possibility of the robbers being spotted by other vendors and delivery men. They took a great risk searching through things and delaying their departure, and he wasn't killed at home so they could only find him here. They just chose the best possible if still undesirable time and chanced it." He turned to take in the merchandise. "They thought they might find what they wanted somewhere in here. But they didn't so they killed him to cover their tracks. The vendor was in on something and it went bad. He was no longer useful to them and now a liability."

John had been taking it all in. "So what, drugs? Importing stolen antiques, what?"

"Not sure." Sherlock leaned over the body. "Gunpowder, small caliber handgun to the heart…something else…" He lowered his head and sniffed. Greg and John waited. Sherlock sniffed again and closed his eyes, trying to bring back the memory that eluded him. "It's…oh!" Sherlock leaned across the body and pulled a box from under the counter next to it. He stood up and after a quick sniff triumphantly handed it to Greg. "It's patchouli incense, that box is full of sticks to replenish those sold at the counter in that display." Sherlock pointed. Greg and John both waited.

"Yeah, and?" Greg prompted.

Sherlock turned to John. "Bobby said David's attacker smelled of patchouli. Reeked of it. More than a typical perfume or oil could manage. The vendor stands behind the counter all day, surrounded by it, maybe burning it occasionally to promote it. His clothes absorb the smell."

"Bobby…which one of the stick figures stood for patchouli?" John had just put together who Sherlock was talking about. "No, never mind. Are you saying this vendor is the one who attacked David Higgins the ventriloquist?"

"Bobby said they perform on Portobello Road for spare change on the weekends when the crowds are heaviest and the weather is good. The balance of probability says yes." Sherlock looked down at the vendor.

Greg had just barely caught up. "So the ventriloquist must be in on it. Who is Bobby, again?"

Sherlock was already shaking his head. "David had no earthly idea why he had been attacked that's why he came to me. If he were in on anything, he would have kept his mouth shut and been glad he was alive. No, David was suspected of having something but didn't actually have it. Whoever wants it has no idea who has it, but when they find out that person is in serious danger." Sherlock strode out of the stall and looked up and down the street, committing the area to memory. "This is getting exciting! More than I expected from such a case."

Greg was rapidly taking notes. "Someone tell me who Bobby is?"

* * *

That night, Molly and Sherlock met at a small restaurant to have dinner together. They chattered about Sherlock's case that took him right back to Portobello Road, Molly's latest students, and how both John and Mrs. Hudson were probing for more information on their status as a couple. Sherlock reassured her he had been very discreet.

Afterward, they walked a while together. Overcome with feelings he had ignored for years and still trying to figure out some of the minor details and minutiae of romance, Sherlock gingerly reached for Molly's hand. The first brush of his on hers was all she needed to immediately intertwine their fingers together, holding fast and firm. He gave her a grateful glance and received a timid smile in return.

Eventually, Sherlock noted that they were in a less desirable part of town to be walking in. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken they had someone behind them that had been walking the same number of blocks, and even though he was almost a block away every time Sherlock noticed him, he was still following their same path. Sherlock had little concern for himself when it came to a fight, but Molly's presence made it wise to hail the first available cab that passed. It was interesting to note now that he acknowledged how he felt about her that he was much more careful about making sure she would always be around. He didn't fancy the thought of life without her presence. It was probably better that he hadn't realized how deep his feelings ran until now. Just imagining leaving his life here to spend two years away was torture. It hadn't been delightful before, but at least it was manageable then.

Sherlock opened the door of the cab to allow Molly in first and threw a casual glance behind him at their shadow. He was half a block away now. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if there was a partner up ahead somewhere waiting for prey to be driven into the trap and mugged. He smirked slightly as he slid into the cab and it pulled away before the follower was anywhere near them, not even close enough to get a license plate number. He settled into the seat next to Molly and gave her a smile she returned.

"So, Sherlock," she began softly.

"Hmmm?" He turned his attention to her, which seemed to increase her nervousness.

"Um, whose place are we going to?" She was blushing; he could see that even in the low lights of the city.

The question made him pause. He was reasonably sure she was indicating she was willing to advance their relationship further if he wanted. Part of him did want that, but another part was a bit uneasy. He debated before answering.

"I don't know. Where were you thinking?"

"I thought maybe my place. You haven't been there in a while, might be nice."

She was trying so hard to look casual, she really was. But he could tell there was something more to what she was saying. He put his hand on hers and looked down at it, hiding his face and playing for time as he whittled down to the facts.

She didn't want to go to Baker Street. And it had nothing to do with what his flat looked like and everything to do with who might see her there and draw conclusions. She was nervous to declare their relationship to their peers. She was perfectly happy to go to her place, where no one in their current social group might see him coming or going. There they could consummate their relationship in secret.

A sinking feeling gathered in his chest. Maybe he wasn't good enough. He knew he could be a bit of an arse at times. He wasn't perfect boyfriend material. Was she ashamed to be with him?

Part of him wanted to agree immediately and jump into the next step. A hasty, hungry move on something that was eventually going to happen anyway that might assuage his damaged pride. But he couldn't deny his own feelings in the matter, even if he couldn't verbalize them in a cab with a cabbie nearby. They were stuck in opposite positions.

He was opening his mouth to refuse when two voices echoed in his head.

 _"Don't cock this up…"_

His eyes flew to hers, and he could see that his hesitation had registered with her. But where he expected to see hurt and concern, he saw something else.

Resignation.

 _Wait. No..._ He stared at her a moment, revamping his plans entirely. "Yes, let's go to your place."

The look in her eyes shifted to surprise and then pleasure. "Great." She leaned forward to give the address to the cabbie.

Sherlock settled back again and stared out the window, thinking.

* * *

They were no sooner in the door to her flat than she had him pushed up against the wall by the front door, mouth hungrily devouring his. Her mumbled words slipped out with quick breaths and whispers.

"Oh, Sherlock…I can't believe this is happening…"

Sherlock straightened up and gasped for air, leaving her suddenly bereft and confused. He swallowed and put his hands on both sides of her face, trying very hard to show her gentleness and concern in the face of the raging inferno she had just created.

"Molly…I'm sorry. But I think we need to talk for a moment."

There it was again, that look in her eyes. Resignation and pain dimmed their brightness and Sherlock found it almost unbearable. He grasped both of her hands in his and led her to the couch. She followed automatically, numb with what she expected to come. Her cat Toby was glaring at Sherlock through slit eyes. He slipped off the couch as they approached and slunk into the bedroom.

They sat down and Sherlock faced her directly before he could lose his nerve. This wasn't his area, really. He didn't want to make things worse. But ignoring it wasn't going to do anything good for them. John and Mary had taught him some things, and communication was important. He took a deep breath, afraid of the answer.

"Molly, are you ashamed to be with me?"

Her eyes flew open in shock. "What? No!"

Sherlock nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. Okay, so it definitely wasn't that. So it must be… "Then why does it make you uncomfortable for others to know we're going out?"

His instinct had pinpointed it perfectly. Molly's lips trembled as she pressed them together. Her eyes became huge in her face, glistening with emotion, and if he hadn't still been gently holding her hand and waiting patiently she might have broken down. She swallowed first, her voice thick.

"I—I just don't want to be that Molly again." Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that, so he waited. After another deep breath, Molly continued. "I do love you, Sherlock. And I do believe you love me." Sherlock nodded silently. "But, when this is over I don't want everyone to look at me like poor lovelorn Molly again, that pathetic woman who thought Sherlock Holmes might actually look at her. I haven't been her in such a long time, and if this ends everyone we know will give me that look again. Full of pity for that plain girl who has a crush on Sherlock Holmes. I can't be that Molly again." Tears were sliding down her cheeks, and she ducked her head to hide them as much as she could.

 _When this is over…_

Sherlock had to swallow too. She was waiting for him to decide he didn't want her. That hurt. If he had the power to do just one thing, he would go back and undo all the damage he'd ever caused her while he was so damaged himself. This, he now recognized, was regret. No violin song could fix this, no wordless communication. Molly's feeling of unworthiness ran deep and strong. She needed words too.

"Molly, that's not who anyone we know sees. That's not who I see. I see Molly Hooper, strong and gentle at the same time, smart, caring and so patient with an idiot like me." She hiccupped a small laugh, and he continued, encouraged. "You don't take any of my bull and you are the only one who sees me like you do. You're never pathetic, never unworthy. You're always there for me. And most important, you are the woman I love more than anything.

"Molly," he was gently wiping the tears from her cheeks "I don't ever want us to end. Never. I've wasted too much time already." He looked deep into her eyes so she could tell he was telling her the truth. "You're not unworthy, Molly. If anything, I am unworthy of you."

Molly 's breath caught in her throat as she choked out a small laugh at that idea, but it faded immediately. "Then why don't you want to sleep with me?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, remorseful. He hadn't realized how his reticence had registered. "It's not that I don't. Believe me, I do. I'm just… a little nervous."

She looked at him in surprise, her tears suddenly forgotten. "Why?"

Sherlock reminded himself that Molly had laid her soul bare to him. "I don't have…much…experience. That was never my primary concern in life, unlike every other person in my school days."

Molly had her mouth slightly open, realizing she had allowed her own self-doubt to assume it was all her. "How much…do you have?"

"Well, I have plenty of book knowledge, I'm not completely ignorant," Sherlock began, but Molly's muffled laugh made him reconsider. "It was just once, a few years ago…and maybe some snogging…"

He refrained from mentioning exactly who the one he slept with had been or that he had just saved her from a beheading. That definitely didn't pertain to the discussion at the moment. He also refrained from mentioning the heavy snogging sessions that had been his relationship with Janine, however faked. He'd had to do research before that to prep and everything had been an act. He simply could not do the same with Molly. She deserved more.

Molly was trying not to laugh at him or undermine his concerns, but he looked so boyish admitting such things. Her emotional barriers were starting to drop as she finally saw the full picture of what was going on.

They were at opposite sides of the spectrum. She was experienced and comfortable with the physical side of relationships, while Sherlock was far more at ease with the emotional side. She was trying to go the physical route because that was what she knew and she was going to take this opportunity with both hands because that must be all it was. Surely it would burn itself out in time.

But he was more concerned with their emotional intimacy and connection. She couldn't believe she had ever thought of him as a man with little emotion. Kissing was one thing, but he looked very worried about the intimate side. She tried again.

"So, if you have _some_ experience, and a lot of…knowledge…why is the idea of us actually doing it such a big deal?"

"Because, this is different," Sherlock looked like it was being pulled out of him by some invisible force. "This is special..." he practically mumbled the last word, looking very out of his element. As she stared at him, he took a breath and tried again. "What I mean is…it's you, Molly." His face screwed up in a way that indicated he had no understanding of why she didn't get this. It was a stroke shy of comical.

Molly was speechless. She had had her share of relationships and even been engaged. But for some reason, Sherlock had always felt head and shoulders out of her league, even after her crush faded and was replaced with a deeper love. She was the one who would hang in the background and support or help him because he meant so much to her, never the one he wrote music for and desired. Even after last night, she had a hard time believing it would last. Surely one day he'd decide he could do better. And here he was, staring at her with eyes like a puppy, vulnerable and out of his comfort zone and doing it for her. She had never had anyone tell her she was special, that she alone mattered more than any other woman out there. Tom had been a lovely boyfriend, but she had never shaken the feeling that she was replaceable. And sure enough, after they broke up he found someone else. Everything Sherlock was doing was because of who she was, worthy of love from him, worthy of effort from him to try to make it real. Because to him, she was special. It was humbling but also incredibly validating. Sherlock was bumbling through emotional landscapes and still managing to hit all the right notes. Thank god he wasn't out trying to play women to get laid, he would be a force to be reckoned with once he hit his stride.

He was watching her, trying to gauge her state of mind, still worried. Even though there was still that tiny niggling self-doubt gnawing away at her, telling her she wasn't worthy and he might decide she wasn't worth the effort, she was suddenly far less nervous about that possibility. And now, Sherlock was looking like he needed some reassurance. And she loved him no matter what happened. Fine. If it ended, she'd be Molly Hooper, the woman Sherlock Holmes wanted right now.

Molly slid closer, closing the distance between them. Sherlock's pupils dilated, becoming larger the closer she came. She put her hands on either side of his neck, noting how the tendons were taught and shaped, the pulse visible over his carotid artery. He was so nervous, poor man. It dawned on her that his issue with their having sex was all about what she would think of him, whether or not he could please her well enough. It gave her courage for her next move.

"I tell you what, Sherlock. Stay here with me tonight, and we'll spend tomorrow night at Baker Street. And I don't care who sees me." She gently kissed his lips, guiding his hands to her hips as a signal that she understood his concerns and was willing to be his teacher. "Anything you're nervous about, we can work it out together."

His hands tightened on her hips in a spasm of anxiety, and then he melted into her, kissing her greedily. He had never desired anyone like he had Molly, all passion and love mixed into one. No one had ever made him feel quite like this. It was intoxicating. What a feeling.

He broke the kiss and stood up, offering her his hand. When she took it and stood next to him she closed the distance between them, bringing them to the same plane, the same place full of open trust and acceptance. His confidence restored, anxiety laid aside, Sherlock smiled down at her.

"Deal."

* * *

 _ **This chapter has a lot of character relationship since I firmly believe there is no instant happily ever after that occurs after "I love yous" do. People bring themselves and their baggage into a relationship and I am always very interested in how that works with different personalities. Relationships take time and work.**_

 _ **Hopefully Sherlock doesn't seem suddenly OOC, he's very much growing and coming into himself as an emotional person (especially around Molly) after being shut down so long. He has taken cues from Mary and John's marriage and is starting to trust his gut on some things. And Molly has her own demons however strong she is.**_

 _ **It's a really wild thing picturing Sherlock and how much sexual experience he has or doesn't have, there is a wide spectrum of thought on the topic as everyone knows. I took my cues from the fact that Sherlock was alarmed by sex in ASiB and was nicknamed "the Virgin", and the probability that he and Irene had some sort of relations after he saved her life as a culmination of that relationship. By the time Janine came in he was on the surface very relaxed about it all but it was all fake, and every cue from that scene tells me they had something going on but probably hadn't actually gone all the way. At least that's my take on it. :)  
**_

 _ **Sorry if anyone is looking for more, this is as far as I'll take it on the Sherlock/Molly having sex issue, I don't feel comfortable writing smut and don't ever do it as a personal rule. Apologies to anyone saddened by this, but I keep the rating T.**_

 _ **Definitely a Eurus visit next chapter, I feel like it's been too long! A few more chapters to go and I hope you like them. Things will gradually start to tie together, there are several loose strings hanging from previous chapters.**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!** _


	10. Chapter 10

_**Well, this chapter is huge. I'd apologize, but I don't think any of you mind, haha.**_

 _ **A few things first:**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the wonderful outpouring of support for the last chapter on topics such as not writing smut and Sherlock having a softer side with Molly. It's a bit stressful trying to balance the line between how he has always been on the show and how I picture him now because I believe the events of TFP and making some peace with his past would finally allow him to move past the man-child state he has been frozen in for so long. (Even though that guy is hilarious to me.) I'm working with a version of him not truly seen on the show except perhaps for the last few minutes of TFP. Really, thanks guys. I was nervous posting that last one and your support made me so happy. :)  
**_

 _ **Also, I know I said I was done discussing Sherlock and Molly having sex, but now I get to eat my words. Sigh, I hate when I say one thing and realize I didn't think it through lol. This chapter discusses Sherlock and Molly having sex the first time but rest assured it** still keeps the rating T **. No explicit body parts are mentioned and everything written in the opening scene of this chapter is intended to show the intimacy and emotional closeness of their new relationship. It's more emotionally explicit than anything else, if you will. Jen I love that phrase, do you mind if I borrow it? ;)**_

 _ **Thanks for reading, you guys are the best!**_

 **Chapter 10**

It didn't take long for Molly to realize that what Sherlock might lack in experience and confidence was more than made up for in intensity. Molly had always known Sherlock was an intense man full of intense emotions, but this time it was very different. She had seen Sherlock fight and repress emotions, but she had never witnessed him embrace them. It was…intense.

All the softer edges Sherlock had been showing recently were rapidly amplified. All the cracks and fissures in his typical persona that provided protection and control began to break in front of her eyes, and at one point Molly was certain she could physically see him take a breath of apprehension, scared but committed, and allow his defenses to crumble to dust.

Intense suddenly seemed like such a tame word for him.

Molly had been willing to tutor Sherlock and it was a good thing because while he had some experience it was clear he had a great desire to tailor his actions to her specifically but less of how to apply it in a practical manner. This had necessitated Molly talking to him as they came together, giving verbal cues and responses so he knew what she liked and how she liked it. Talking about sex during sex had never been something Molly was comfortable with. It was too private, too embarrassing, too needy. Instead, she usually kept it in her mind, locked behind her lips, and hoped her partner would catch on to some of it.

But Sherlock wanted that help, and he was so invested in her feedback and pointers, so willing and accepting that she soon lost her inhibition when it came to talking about her needs and wants with him. Sherlock's confidence grew as they progressed, but he was still entirely focused on pleasing her. True to form, his aim was to be the best lover possible for her and he was willing to go to great lengths to achieve it.

To help herself feel better about talking so much she had asked that Sherlock talk also, and she could tell for him too this was far beyond anything he was typically comfortable with. But he willingly complied. Their work at open and honest communication, their acceptance of the other's feelings and desires had the unexpected side effect in that it made their encounter far more intimate than any lover she had ever been with. They didn't just have sex, and they didn't just make love. It was something far more intimate that she couldn't put a word to. They came together and opened up to each other body and soul.

Part of the reason for this was the way Sherlock verbalized himself during their first time together. Besides telling her how much he desired her, stuttering over how she made him feel at certain moments when he could actually get words out and only because she needed to hear it too, telling her how beautiful she was (that just kept slipping out) and asking if she felt good or if what he was doing was to her satisfaction, he said her name a lot.

He wasn't using her name to remind himself who he was sleeping with, and it wasn't because he'd forgotten his own name. (Though he certainly looked like he had a few times.) Instead, it was more of an endearment, a long-delayed celebration. This wasn't just Sherlock having sex with someone; this was Sherlock consummating his love for _Molly Hooper_. Molly had always liked Sherlock's intensity, but being on the receiving end of it at full blast was overwhelming and dizzying and delightful all at the same time. Sherlock was allowing himself to feel all his emotions regarding her, and he was more open than she ever had seen before, even counting the times she'd seen him at his most exposed. His use of her name told her that how he felt about her was entirely due to who she was.

 _Molly._ He whispered it against her neck as he grazed it with his lips. The tender sound caressed her skin as much as his mouth did. _Molly..._ He mumbled it in between uttering how much he wanted and needed her. _Molly…_ He sighed it, he groaned it, and he moaned it in response to her saying his. _Molly, Molly, Molly…_ He chanted it like a sacred litany; his lips caressing the syllables as he lovingly murmured it over and over. Later, instead of lying on his back and staring at the ceiling like Tom used to, Sherlock slowly lowered his body on top of hers and braced himself on his elbows so he could gently brush her hair from her face, stare deep into her eyes, and murmur her name with tender reverence. It was the most intimate, most connected experience she had ever shared with a man.

When they settled in to go to sleep, Molly had put on her comfy sleep shirt and unearthed an old t-shirt she convinced Sherlock to wear despite his dislike of it. She lay down on her side of the bed and was prepared to roll over to assume her typical sleeping position, but Sherlock was suddenly right next to her. His arms wound around her and scooped her in close to him, holding her safe and warm against his heat.

Molly had never in her life felt so cherished.

She lay in the dark; held close in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, and found that she was so overwhelmed with emotion she couldn't hold back a few tears. She was glad the light was off and Sherlock was cuddled up to her back. She didn't know how to tell him the level of gratitude she felt to God or whoever was in charge for giving her a night like this. She didn't know how to tell him it surpassed even her wildest daydreams, and that if she died tomorrow at least she would have the night Sherlock Holmes opened his heart to her and treated her like a goddess.

But she certainly didn't want to die tomorrow. She fell asleep with a prayer on her lips that it might last.

* * *

"Good morning Molly,"

The velvety rumble slipped into her sleep and made her sigh in contentment. It was morning, and after the night before their comfort level with each other was astronomically high. Everything that had happened the night before had only served to bring them closer.

Now it was morning, and the sun was rising on a beautiful day.

"Molly, I can see your eyelids twitching so I know you're starting to wake up. I seem to have a Toby problem you might need to help me with."

Molly's eyes stayed closed as she attempted to process what he'd just said. Finally, she woke up enough for it to click. She rolled over to face him. "What—oh." She couldn't hold in the giggles that emerged as the sight greeted her eyes.

Sherlock was still lying on his side, but now a large furry growth was attached to one side of his head. Toby was lying on Sherlock's head, sprawled across the dark curls, his front paws draped over Sherlock's left eye which was shut to avoid cat hair, back legs arranged on Sherlock's neck, tail curled around himself as he purred.

"Just move him, he'll get over it." She reached to grab Toby around the midsection and lift him off. Sherlock's voice tried to forestall her.

"Wait, wait, no I've tried that already. He just—ow!"

"Oh dear, Toby!"

By that time Molly had slightly lifted Toby off on Sherlock's head and received a first-hand view of how her cat reacted to such an occurrence. His claws unsheathed halfway; threatening to pierce Sherlock's left eyelid and outer eye. Toby was still purring, but it seemed to have deepened and taken on a vaguely threatening quality now, as did his eyes which were half closed into sleepy cat look but still managed to look menacing. Molly gazed at her cat in frustration as he continued to purr, owner and pet in a standoff over possession of Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, that's his usual spot." Sherlock's closed eye opened in aggravation and immediately closed again upon feeling a paw brush his eyelashes. Molly stifled another giggle. "He must be jealous. Or maybe he's trying to get back at you for bumping him off both the couch and my bed." No sooner had he and Molly entered her bedroom last night, already passionate and eager for more, than Toby had irritably left the new place he'd just made for himself on the bed and stalked out of the room.

"I can't go visit my sister today with a cat on my head." Sherlock's tone was brimming with annoyance. "Security will never let me through."

Molly couldn't help laughing at the predicament. "Right. Let me go fill his food bowl. Maybe that will convince him to leave." She quickly slid out of bed and hurried to the kitchen, pulling down her sleep shirt as she went. Toby and Sherlock both watched attentively before settling into an aggressive silence.

"All right Toby, you've made your point." Sherlock sounded as if he were addressing a respected foe. "But you're going to have to deal with the fact that I'm here because I'm not going anywhere." He waited, hearing Molly as she tapped a fork against Toby's bowl in hopes of luring him away. "In return, I will endeavor to respect your space more. Truce?"

After a momentary pause, Toby jumped off Sherlock's head and the bed to trot toward the kitchen. Sherlock couldn't decipher if his telling off or the promise of food had done the trick. Either way, it felt good to open both eyes again. He ran a hand over his face to get rid of any leftover cat hair. Good thing he had retrieved the trail of clothes on the floor leading to the bedroom last night before they went to sleep. He had no doubt that Toby would have used them to express his displeasure in some way.

Moments later Molly hurried back into the room and closed the door behind her. "There. Sorry, he's never done that before." She climbed back into bed, aware that she should just get ready now that she was up, but unable to with Sherlock still lying there looking sleep disheveled. Sherlock clearly had the same idea, because he turned toward her and helped her throw the covers back over herself. Molly settled in and faced him, so happy she was radiant. Sherlock had a smile on his face as well, and mischief on his mind.

"Thank you for being my teacher last night. You were very helpful."

"My pleasure—" she halted abruptly and then blushed as she realized how it sounded. "I mean, you were a good student."

"Of course I was. I'm always good at learning new things." His tone had traces of his usual arrogance, which made her smile. Sherlock seemed to allow only her to see certain parts of himself, but that didn't mean the others weren't just as much a part of him.

"Oh? What if I told you there is more you should be learning and you're not completely educated yet?"

His eyes were gleaming at her. "Don't even try to pretend you weren't satisfied last night, all the physical evidence told me you were more than content with my endeavors."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You're no fun, I can't even tease you properly."

Sherlock chuckled and drew her closer. "Still, I am more than happy to learn more, as long as you're teaching me."

Her thoughts flew to the time she'd noted on the clock in the kitchen a few minutes earlier. She needed to get going if she didn't want to be late. "I thought you had to go see your sister," her voice wavered, sounding weak even to her.

He was nibbling her fingertips one at a time. "Mmmhmm, but I have time before the helicopter appointment. Should we continue my education?"

"I should get ready for work." It was a feeble, half-hearted protest, and they both knew it. He responded by running his hand up her arm to her shoulder, pausing to make sure she was on board before he continued. But just that move made her shiver, and the next one did her in.

Sherlock's eyes darkened into stormy orbs as they tenderly swept her face, and suddenly he was looking at her as if she were the cause of all his happiness.

" _Molly…_ " Her name slid from his tongue in a smooth caress that made her very bones feel loved and wanted. She groaned in defeat. She loved how Sherlock Holmes loved her, body and soul.

She sat up and tackled him, pushing him over onto his back so she could be in control for a moment. She straddled his waist, hands braced on his chest. She could feel his warmth through the thin fabric. She leaned over him. His face was bright with anticipation even though his eyes were dark, open and intense as she kissed him. His hands rose to lazily stroke her back until she raised her head to look at him.

She was going to be late for work and she didn't care. "Damn you, Sherlock Holmes, I'm never late to work." Her lips cut off his laughter, muffling her own mirth too as she grinned to herself.

He was like a drug to her.

* * *

When Molly finally managed to get herself ready and off to work, Sherlock kissed her goodbye. Then he made a quick stop at Baker Street to shower, change clothes and retrieve his violin.

He made it to the helicopter pad only a few minutes late, ignoring the pilot's annoyed stare as he climbed in. Before long he was using his key card to descend the many levels and final checkpoint that led to his sister.

Sherlock noted the difference in Eurus' cell the moment the door slid open. First, Eurus was already standing, pacing instead of sitting in her usual spot. Second, the lowlight was on as usual, but this time it was less green and closer to white. As he stepped in further the brighter light came on as it always did, but this time it was a golden yellow color instead of the sterile, overwhelming bright white. He checked the glass as a reflex, worried that the change meant guards had been compromised. But it was still there, and Eurus looked a little on edge, so it didn't seem she was spending her time talking to anyone to get her way.

Once Eurus saw him step in, she stopped pacing and stared at him. Her face registered mild surprise and maybe a little bit of a victorious satisfaction. Her violin and bow were up before he had even pulled his from the bag.

"Glad to see you kept your end of the bargain."

Sherlock smiled slightly as he replied. "Thank you for the insight, it was very valuable. Molly says hello."

Eurus nodded slightly. "I'm sure you'd have figured it out in time, but you don't have many more years to waste."

Sherlock's shoulders moved in silent laughter. How like a Holmes, unable to refrain from an intellectual dig toward a sibling. "Indeed. Thank you, sister dear."

Eurus' eyes were still shadowed over with anxiety, but she managed to smile at him. "What did you play for her?"

"I played her. A piece I've been composing for a few weeks." Sherlock didn't bother to claim the tune as "him" as he had with the piece he'd composed with The Woman in mind. It was Molly through and through, whether he wrote it or not.

"Would you play me some?" Eurus tried to keep a poker face, but Sherlock noted her great desire anyway. It was quite a private and personal piece, and Eurus knew she might be crossing a hidden boundary asking him to share it.

After a moment's consideration, Sherlock played the first movement of Molly's song. He was fairly sure she wouldn't mind. Her strength and bravery shone through, and Sherlock found it impossible not to think about the night before and the one before that. He was aware his face was softer and more expressive, more than he would ever usually permit with someone who wasn't Molly, but he still felt less difficulty doing it for Eurus than anyone else in his family.

Eurus listened in silence, taking in every note. When Sherlock finished, she was quick to speak first. "Molly Hooper really does seem like a good person for you."

"She is very good for me. She's just very good all the way around, and I happen to be the one she loves. Still not sure why but—"

"—but you'll take it?" Eurus had a gentle look on her face. "Just don't cock it up Sherlock, I can tell you've already had sex. Don't make a mess of it."

Sherlock shook his head, mildly exasperated. _Honestly…_ "I don't plan to. Thanks for the advice. Speaking of things we don't want to make a mess," He noted Eurus' mouth turn up on one side and knew she had seen through his avoidance of the subject of sex with Molly. So be it. That was private and not going to be discussed. He forged on. "I spoke to our parents about their visit. Thursday next will be the day."

Sherlock had suspected that Eurus' new edgy quality was due to the impending parental visit, but it was still reassuring to see that suspicion confirmed. Eurus's face had rigidity in it now, her eyes intense over her set jaw and flat mouth. Sherlock could understand her anxiety, having dealt with so much himself recently. He began to play, hoping she would relax enough to join in.

It took several measures but eventually, she did. As she joined in he smiled her way, noting how the golden light made her features softer and less harsh. The mellow light seemed to help her drop her anxiety faster than the white, which gave him some food for thought that he laid aside for the moment so he could focus on his sister. She needed the tether, she needed him to help her stay on the ground, especially now.

They played for a long time, switching between different pieces, ad-libbing melodies, and rhythms. They became more and more comfortable with each other, knowing that the other would pick up on cues and follow leads, they were that in sync with their musical communication. Eventually, Eurus relaxed enough to musically relate her nervousness regarding the visit, which was exactly what Sherlock was hoping for.

"I feel like I'm going to be on the plane again. I don't know if I can do this."

"Don't worry, you can. If I can tell Molly Hooper I love her, you can let our parents watch you play. That's all. Just watch you play. And I'll be here to play with you." Sherlock was fresh from one of the best few days of his life, and he used the new softening of his emotions to reach out to Eurus.

Her face was doubtful. "I don't know…"

"You've helped me to a new place. Now let me help you."

"But I haven't seen them since I was five…"

"All the more reason to do this." Sherlock's face was intent but reassuring. "You are strong, Eurus. We all are in our own way. I believe in you."

The golden light made the cell feel warmer and more hopeful. Sherlock didn't break eye contact with his sister, and they played on as Eurus focused on his face. She was still tense and apprehensive, but still able to give a tiny trembling smile to him as she desperately tried to believe his words.

* * *

Sherlock entered Baker Street later that day after the helicopter journey and a cab ride home. He let himself in the front door, hung up his coat and ascended the stairs, ready to put his violin back and track down some food.

But the scent of a particular aftershave made him slow his progress and heave a sigh instead. He pushed the door open, already speaking to the visitor.

"It seems you've become aware of the fact that you straighten the door knocker every time you visit. I was wondering how long that would last." He gave his brother a laconic smile as he headed for his music stand at the window.

Mycroft remained standing in the center of the room. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're referring to, brother mine." His mouth twitched in the driest of smiles.

"Of course you don't." Sherlock finished putting his violin away and turned to face his brother, tossing the black bag over his shoulder. He used the momentary distraction to draw Mycroft's gaze while he quickly evaluated his brother's current status.

He wasn't particularly reassured in what he saw. Mycroft had dark circles under his eyes, even though he had tried to hide them. The lines of his face were more pronounced. He wasn't sleeping well. Brackets on both sides of his mouth indicated his brother was holding his mouth pursed for long periods of time, which meant Mycroft was spending less time interacting verbally with people at his job and more time hidden away in his home, texting when necessary. His need to look dapper at all times meant he was wearing thin gloves even though they weren't strictly necessary for warmth, and his umbrella was in one hand. Red flags were abounding. Mycroft was still reeling from the events at Sherrinford.

Sherlock tempered the sharp tone he'd been prepared to use on his brother in favor of a milder one. "What can I do for you, brother dear?" He strode to his chair and plopped into it, laying his arms on the arms to appear casual. Mycroft went for the same effect by strolling to the window to admire the new glass panes.

"I see you have decided to pursue a relationship with Molly Hooper." Mycroft addressed his remarks to a random person strolling down the sidewalk across the street.

"Yes. Nice to know I can barely go a night without being spied on. But I'm fairly certain you didn't come here to discuss my romantic entanglements." Sherlock faced forward, but the comment was still for his brother behind him.

Mycroft's reflection in the window gave a sad smile. "You'd be surprised." Never had he imagined that Sherlock would act on that particular impulse. It could turn out to be a good thing, like John, or it could be a disaster. "Molly Hooper is a smart, capable, and mature lady. You could do much worse."

As far as compliments went, this was quite a good endorsement from his brother. Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile, but only because Mycroft couldn't see it. "True. Sadly, she could do much better, but I'm going to ignore that."

"Good luck. Just don't—"

"—cock it up? Yes, many have already given me that particular caution." Sherlock tried not to let his annoyance show. Mycroft would correctly pinpoint it as something he was actually quite worried about.

Mycroft turned from the window in surprise. "Actually, I was going to say 'Just don't turn to drugs if you lose her.' The only way I can see this getting 'cocked up', as you say, is if one of you dies. Otherwise, you're a perfect match in my estimation."

The following silence was filled with shock and uncomfortable emotion on both sides. Not only had Mycroft just expressed confidence in Sherlock's ability to hold a relationship and practically performed the Mycroft equivalent of a love sonnet praising the relationship, but he had also mentioned the one thing that Sherlock tried not to ever think about, especially after Mary. He didn't like picturing that, even if he did accept that life was filled with loss. Not her. Not Molly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, glad that he couldn't see his brother at the moment. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"You're welcome." Mycroft's tone told Sherlock he too was glad they weren't facing each other.

There was a small pause, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft was trying to figure out how best to approach the other subject he had come to discuss. "Why else did you come?"

Mycroft drew a deep breath and left the window, finally moving in front of Sherlock's chair so he could see him. Sherlock waited for him to start, and when he didn't Sherlock gestured to John's chair behind him, inviting him to sit. Mycroft wavered for a moment and then acquiesced.

Sherlock had rarely seen his brother so reticent to discuss something before. But considering he was reasonably sure it was about Eurus it made sense. The last discussion of her had been just as difficult for Mycroft even if they didn't count the patience grenade incident that culminated it. He waited with fingertips together but in his lap, knowing that Mycroft would not start until he felt sure of what he would say.

Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat lightly. "I've been watching the security footage from Sherrinford." Sherlock's brows twitched in a look meant to imply he'd assumed as much already. "What kind of secret code are you two using, and why are you using it?"

Sherlock's brow crumpled in consternation. "It's not a secret code, it's communication."

"Secret communication that no one can understand. Like a code." Mycroft's brows were rising higher with every word. "Is she recruiting you? Is she reprogramming you?" Mycroft's gloved hands tightened on his umbrella handle. Sherlock noted it with faint disappointment considering how nice the weather was today.

"We're just talking, Mycroft. In the only way Eurus is able to at the moment. That's all. You said she was beyond our reach, I simply found a different way of reaching her."

"You play the same song almost every time you visit." Mycroft persisted, blinking owlishly.

"That song is—her." Sherlock knew that wouldn't go over well and sure enough, Mycroft straightened up looking very annoyed.

"If you're not going to tell me the truth just say so, I'm in no mood for riddles."

Sherlock could now see the anger behind the statement, and the fear behind the anger. "It's the song she composed as an expression of herself. I'm just speaking her language. No codes, no secrets, no brainwashing. I want to help her."

"You shouldn't trust her." Mycroft's face was deadly serious. "She can turn on you in a moment; she has always had a fixation with harming you."

Sherlock stared at his brother, frustrated, disappointed, and somewhat horrified. "Mycroft, what do you see when you look at our sister?"

"I see a genius who has no conscience and no remorse. I see a very disturbed little girl who killed a child because her brother wouldn't play with her, and then tried to kill him too."

"She never did. Sherrinford was quite an ordeal, but she has never tried to kill me and she had ample opportunity—"

"I saw the pictures, Sherlock!" The outburst surprised both brothers into momentary silence. Mycroft stood up, unable to relax under the stress of the discussion. He shoved his umbrella aside, moved to the back of John's chair and braced both hands on it, leaning over to face his brother from a higher position in a vain attempt to feel less vulnerable. Sherlock stayed where he was, joined fingertips automatically raised now as he stared at his brother and tried to decipher some invisible puzzle.

"What pictures?"

Mycroft swallowed. "After—after Victor disappeared. You searched the grounds until it was too dark to see. You dug under that beech tree…I tried to solve that riddle, but it made no sense—" Mycroft looked down at the chair, and Sherlock realized for the first time that Mycroft too had attempted to decipher the puzzle and failed. Mycroft too had searched the grounds. But kids that age could never find the ancient well, disused for decades, hidden in the acreage behind them near the old decrepit ancestral home that stood in the closest lands to Musgrave Hall. That is, not unless they were a child of era-defining genius as Eurus had been. Even the search parties hadn't found it. Sherlock looked at his brother and realized how much the experience had changed him too, though he unlikely to ever admit it. Sherlock searched the newly recovered memories in his hard drive.

"I screamed most of the night. I was screaming for someone to find him, for her to tell us. Our parents made me go to bed; they wouldn't let me talk to her. I was so upset I think they thought I would hurt her. They didn't know what else to do…"

"And she just sang that song. And she was happy." Mycroft provided the details reluctantly, his lips curling, evidence of his sister's desire to torment his brother.

"She thought she had made me laugh. She got them confused, just like asking you which one was pain. She didn't realize it was screaming until Mother and Father told her."

Mycroft looked up at him, surprised as it clicked into place. "That's why she changed."

Sherlock stared at him. "How did she change?"

Mycroft straightened. "The next day she wasn't smiling anymore. She started calling Victor 'drowned Redbeard', and we knew he must be dead. And she stayed in her room, drawing."

"Drawing pictures…" Sherlock murmured. "What did they look like?" Mycroft had only said that Eurus had become fixated on harming Sherlock after Victor, and then burned the house down. Sherlock hadn't asked for further clarification at the time.

Mycroft met his eyes reluctantly, not relishing having to share such things. "They were all you. You, frowning with your eyes crossed out, you in Musgrave hall, your frowning face scribbled out, R.I.P. on a gravestone with your name…you hanging…blood…our family with you blotted out…" his voice faded away.

"She didn't know how to handle the situation or her emotions about them. She was probably angry I failed to save her. She wanted sad screaming Sherlock gone, but she may not have wanted to hurt me. It's possible she only wanted to destroy the pictures, which represented her guilt over making her brother sad, taking away his playmate." Sherlock's voice was contemplative. "I wonder if she even intended to burn the house down."

Mycroft frowned at him from across the chair. "You take too kind a view of her. I know the things she is capable of, and you should too after Sherrinford."

Sherlock's eyes flashed up, full of recrimination. "Have you ever considered the possibility that growing up from a young age in what constitutes solitary confinement just might have affected her? Isn't it possible Uncle Rudy took a child already struggling due to her genius and made it exponentially worse?" Sherlock's hand gripped the armrest tightly, betraying his anger.

Mycroft glared at him. "Did you know that when she put me in her cell to wait for hours on end certain you were dead the Governor's body had been removed, but the bloodstains hadn't?" Sherlock stared at him. "Did you know that's what I looked at, that's what became so deeply ingrained in my mind while I waited that now I can't even look at her without seeing all the casualties of that day?"

Sherlock knew he could either antagonize his brother with a condescending remark, and by doing so possibly start a fist fight, or he could take a milder approach. For the sake of his siblings, he chose the latter.

"No. I didn't know that."

Mycroft relaxed his aggressive posture somewhat at the admission. He looked down again, collecting himself. Or maybe he was struggling with himself. When he looked up at Sherlock his face was troubled.

"She killed people, Sherlock. The Governor and his wife, the Garrideb brothers…so many… She tried to kill John Watson. Why would she do that if she wasn't out to hurt you? Why would she put us through that?" His tone was close to plaintive as if he was begging Sherlock to convince him.

"You, she may have put through it because she's angry with you, which is only natural since you are the face of her incarceration. John was an unfortunate victim of circumstance, there because he was important to me. He was the new best friend I found against impossible odds after the trauma of Victor. But you said it yourself, everything there that day was all about me." He had Mycroft's full attention now. "She knew that it changed me, losing Victor. She had put enough together with her visit to me in disguise, you informing her that I had rewritten my memories; she knew that I had blocked out that trauma and strove to suppress every emotion in favor of cold hard logic. And she also knew that wasn't who I truly was. Eurus has felt disconnected from the world, trapped in her airplane of sleeping people, 16 rows by 6 seats, since she was a child. She still wanted, needed me to save her. But I couldn't do that until she fixed what she broke. Everything that day was meant to break down my walls and make me face the past, what it had done to me, so I could, in turn, save her."

Mycroft looked horrified and intrigued at the same time. "Are you telling me, that was her version of therapy?"

Sherlock smiled. "In a way. Only a Holmes would view such drastic measures as a legitimate path for fixing a past trauma. The casualties along the way were to her a necessary evil and since she is disconnected enough from humanity it really didn't bother her at all. You're right, Mycroft. She can never go free. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to abandon her there."

Mycroft glanced toward the fireplace. Sherlock could tell he was mulling things over, trying to reconcile two very different sisters in his mind. Sherlock saw the moment he realized. Mycroft's face was pale as he turned back to look at his brother. He looked almost sick as a new possibility dawned. "Oh God, Sherlock…did I make her into what she is now?"

Sherlock was reminded of how Mycroft was ready to sacrifice his own life to spare his brother pain that day. His tone softened further. "I don't know. It's impossible to tell how much is nature and what is nurture by now. But Uncle Rudy started this path. You just inherited it. You were young too. Don't torture yourself with all the blame. You tried to protect your little brother, however little he appreciated it. You really did do your best."

It was a testament to how deeply disturbed Mycroft was that he didn't respond to Sherlock's words. They were more than either ever really said to one another regarding feelings and their childhood. "I can't unsee the blood on the glass as I sat in her cell." Mycroft's eyes were blindly staring at the back wall. "I can't unsee the pictures, her as a murderer who is a danger to you…a monster."

"Can't you? I doubt that. Tell me, brother dear, who arranged for Eurus to have softer lighting?" Mycroft's face was answer enough, torn and guilty. "You are already starting to see something different in her or you wouldn't have given her a better atmosphere. You just need some more time to see her in that different light."

Mycroft nodded, deep in thought. All the fight seemed to have gone out of him. "Do you think she doesn't speak because she's afraid of what her words can do now? Is she developing empathy, a conscience after this long?"

"I don't know. It's possible. She knows that what she does affects me, at least. It's a start. Either way, I'll keep visiting. She needs me to help her keep the plane on the ground. I won't give up on her."

Mycroft nodded and then had a sudden thought return. "She made you laugh. She really made you laugh. What was that?"

Sherlock smiled. "She called me a hypocrite and told me I was missing the obvious."

Mycroft almost laughed. "She is indeed a Holmes, isn't she?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, she is. She shares many Holmes traits with her brothers, but it seems she got the worst of the biggest one."

"And what would that be?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock returned Mycroft's look with a serious one. "The burden of genius."

Mycroft's face fell before he realized it and wiped his expression clean. "It's…it's not a burden."

Sherlock could see in his brother the same struggle they all had. The dichotomy of struggling to belong in a world that thought them strange because of their higher intelligence and at the same time believing it made them superior to soften the blow of not fitting in.

"It can be, just as it can be a benefit at times too. I have found that having certain people in my life actually works to lighten some of the load. Having me in her life does seem to be helping Eurus to a degree. You never know, brother, how that might help you."

Mycroft was already shaking his head. "That's not my area."

Sherlock paused, thinking. Mycroft had been the most capable of shutting down emotions, he excelled at it. Now that Sherlock was openly making emotional attachments, Mycroft's demeanor reminded Sherlock of that day at Sherrinford after he'd smashed the coffin. His older brother had hung around just through the door to the next challenge, observing Sherlock having lots of painful emotions but helpless, uncomfortable and not sure what to do about it.

Sherlock's voice turned sly. "I think you'd be surprised. You seem to have a good grasp of people, at least ones in my inner circle. You can pinpoint who is a helpful addition to my life. Incidentally, our sister also thinks that Molly is a good match for me."

Mycroft's eyes boggled. "You took relationship advice…from Eurus?"

"Yup." Sherlock popped the 'p'. "Worked out great too, I highly recommend it if you ever have the need. Eurus has a unique perspective."

Sherlock's attempt to bring some levity to their conversation worked. Mycroft snorted. "Indeed. Changing the subject, I want to be there when our parents visit."

Sherlock gave him a considering glance. "Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Why not get the whole family together for the first time in decades?" Sherlock gave him a look that told Mycroft his reason didn't quite convince. Mycroft moved around the chair and retrieved his umbrella, preparing to leave. Before he did, he gave Sherlock an evaluating look. "You seem—well. Apparently getting involved suits you."

Considering Mycroft had continually warned Sherlock against getting involved for most of his life, it was quite an admission and both brothers recognized it as such. Mycroft had supported Sherlock's closed lifestyle because it helped him protect his little brother from more emotional heartbreak, so for him to admit the opposite might just be good for Sherlock was equal to Mycroft admitting he had been wrong, and that never happened.

Sherlock was aware of a deep desire to rub this victory in his older brother's face, but he resisted. Mycroft wasn't as infallible as he imagined, and he needed a bit of care too. "Thank you, brother dear. Your opinion means a lot, actually."

Mycroft gave him a small smile, acknowledging Sherlock's sacrifice. "Good night Sherlock."

"Good night." Sherlock watched his brother descend the stairs and wondered if Mycroft would ever get involved.

* * *

Later that evening Molly approached the door to Baker Street with resolute steps, even though she was still fighting some trepidation. She took a deep breath and tapped on the outer door, knowing Mrs. Hudson would be the one to answer it.

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson's face was beaming as her eyes fell on Molly. "Molly! Do come in, you look positively weighed down!" She opened the door wider so Molly could slip in and closed it. "Do you want me to carry something for you?"

"Oh, um, no thanks. I just have my bag, and some food for Sherlock and—um me," Molly's voice tapered off as she realized her cheeks were hotter than the takeout she was holding, and mentioning her bag only drew attention to the fact that it wasn't her usual one for work but an overnight bag. It felt like she was broadcasting that she and Sherlock were sleeping together, and even if she didn't worry about what shape the future would take, it still felt like she was parading naughty intentions in front of a parental figure.

But she needn't have worried. Mrs. Hudson threw a quick look over her shoulder up the stairs to make sure they wouldn't be overheard and leaned in a bit closer. "You have no idea how happy I am for you both, Molly," she murmured in hushed tones just above a whisper. "You are the best thing for him that he could ever have, and I am delighted to see you together."

"Thank you—" Molly began, but Mrs. Hudson wasn't finished yet.

"But I certainly know he can be a bit of a chore at times, and he has had trouble with drugs and stupidity. Don't let him drag you down if he's determined to go that way, you deserve better than that. If he can't appreciate you, get out before he's under arrest for a double murder. Learn from my experience."

Mrs. Hudson's face was concerned and supportive, and she obviously meant every word. Molly bit her lip to avoid laughing and tried to show Mrs. Hudson how pleased she was. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, so much. It's…good to know you care." She gave her fellow godmother a small one-armed hug since that was the best she could manage with everything she was holding. Mrs. Hudson gave her a quick squeeze and a fond look.

"Oh! I almost forgot, don't worry about being overheard up there, dear, I can't hear a thing through the floors—"

"Oh God," Molly blurted when it became apparent what Mrs. Hudson was referring to. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire now, and all she wanted to do was escape.

"—it's not like Sherlock has had any occasions to test that for me, you know, but really I never hear anything, so just relax and have fun—" Mrs. Hudson seemed completely unaware of Molly's discomfort.

"Oh, my God," Head down, Molly was starting to inch toward the stairs with a slow shuffle while Mrs. Hudson followed.

"—live and let live, I always say!"

"Molly?" Sherlock's voice echoed from the upper landing, and Molly had never been so glad to see him come down the stairs. He turned the corner and paused, looking from one to the other. Molly realized he had probably been waiting for her at the window and was wondering what they were talking about that was taking her so long.

"Hi, Sherlock," She knew her face was bright red at this point. Hell.

Mrs. Hudson beamed from her to Sherlock and then gave Molly a nudge toward the stairs. "Don't let me keep you, go enjoy your evening!"

Molly quickly moved to the stairs and followed Sherlock up, but not before taking a moment to make a move she immediately regretted. She looked back to say good night to Mrs. Hudson, who acknowledged it and pantomimed not hearing a thing. Molly scuttled up the stairs as fast as she could.

Sherlock was holding the door for her as she reached the top. She headed for the table to deposit the food first while he closed the door behind her. She made a mental note to close the bedroom door later too. Sherlock had clearly been in the process of clearing some eating space for them, since his microscope, blowtorch, a pile of papers and assorted scientific tools were already at the far end. Sherlock resumed moving things around as she unpacked the food.

"What were you two talking about down there?" His cursory glance immediately picked up on her flushed face and ruddy cheeks, not to mention her flustered manner.

Molly looked up from the carton she was opening. "Um, Mrs. Hudson felt the need to inform me that she can't hear sounds through the floor very well, so our—activities will be unheard."

She had the pleasure of watching Sherlock's face go completely blank with shocked surprise, which didn't happen often, and then he recovered quickly. His laugh, quiet and full bodied enough to shake his shoulders, helped put her at ease enough to laugh too.

"Well, that's reassuring. I should have seen that one coming. I'll get you a key of your own."

She stopped unloading the food and looked up abruptly, facing him across the table. "I wasn't hinting for a key or anything. You don't have to get me one."

He gave her a puzzled look. "Don't you want one?"

"Well—doesn't it seem a bit…soon?" He was looking at her as if she were a complicated puzzle he was failing to solve. "We only just started going out forty-eight hours ago, Sherlock…"

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. She could practically see his big brain trying to make sense out of what she was saying. Finally, he managed to make some words.

"But it would spare you any more reassurances from my well-meaning landlady. And why shouldn't you have one? You're the woman I love." His shoulders moved in a ghost of a shrug. He was completely baffled.

"But don't you feel that things are going rather quick?" Molly was getting more stressed by the second, wanting to make her point but not hurt his feelings. "It's been two days." There was a pause. He was obviously waiting for a point to be made. "Most couples don't trade keys until they've at least had a few weeks together…or longer…" Molly felt like she was just blundering now so she stopped, just as Sherlock's mouth made an "o" of discovery.

"Oh! I see. No need to worry about that Molly, we're not just any couple."

"We're not?" Molly's mouth quirked in a smile. She could easily say that about Sherlock but had never applied that idea to herself. She was pretty ordinary. Maybe the relationship transferred the quality to her.

Sherlock smiled back, confident of that fact. "Nooo, we've known each other so long that we're nowhere near anything normal. I've used your flat as a bolt hole. You've helped me fake my death. I'd say that warrants a key in itself."

Molly thought about it. "I guess that's true."

"Of course it's true!" Encouraged, Sherlock rounded the table; he put his hands on both of her shoulders and looked down into her face. "But, if you don't feel comfortable having a key to my flat yet, we can wait. I was simply attempting to help you avoid any awkwardness." He gave her a small smile.

Molly sighed, letting her tension slip away. "I just don't want you to feel pressured. Like I want too much too soon."

His gaze was perceptive. "I think that's more you than me. But you can continue to discuss our love life with Mrs. Hudson every visit if you wish."

A flush began to creep up her neck. "Maybe not."

"Then there's only one solution." He was patiently waiting for her to relent in her own time.

"All right, you make a good point," Molly finally conceded. "I'll take a key." Sherlock beamed, so she hurried to add clarification. "But, please, let's just enjoy each other for now. No more huge steps for a while. No need to rush things."

"You mean I can't ask you to live with me tomorrow? Damn." Sherlock was laughing at her as she lightly smacked his arm, but there was the tiniest bit of disappointment masked in his joke. Molly recognized it in spite of his attempt to laugh it off and put her hand up to his cheek so she could look him in the face.

"Sherlock. I do love you."

Sherlock nodded, realizing that Molly needed to slow down a bit and that it was exactly the opposite of what he desired. He felt like he'd waited a lifetime to be with Molly and had nearly missed his chance altogether. His love for her was so intense now that he was allowing it to be felt that he was perfectly happy to leap into a serious relationship with Molly Hooper and take everything he could. If she would, he'd ask her to move in as soon as possible. He rarely did things in half measure and this was no exception.

But Molly needed some pacing and stability, and while he had no doubt of her love for him, he understood that desire. It was probably good that she was strong enough to let him know what she needed and tell him off if necessary because he'd very likely push his way through if allowed to. He smiled at Molly, realizing how much he appreciated her strength. It balanced their relationship.

She was still looking into his face, worried he was taking her limitations as rejection. "I really do."

He smiled again. "I know." He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her in gently for a kiss. "Now, we'll have to try out Mrs. Hudson's claim later. But let's eat first." His eyes were twinkling at her. "You'll need your strength."

Molly felt she should give a token protest at his suggestive manner, if only because he expected it, but in the end decided she didn't care enough to pursue it.

"I'm off work tomorrow, so we have all night."

She kissed his surprised lips and stepped away to open another carton. "You'll definitely need your strength." She threw a brazen look his way, daring him to reply and was gratified to see he might just have some red on his cheeks too. He wasn't the only one who could dish it out.

"So," she sat down and started to unwrap the plastic forks she had brought, "tell me about your visit with Eurus."

Sherlock smiled as he moved back to his chair. "It went very well. Eurus says hello. She's still nervous about the impending visit but she's holding together." He sat down across from her and picked up his fork. "I also had a surprise visit from my other sibling."

"Mycroft?" Molly put a bite in her mouth and took a moment to chew. "What's he up to?"

Sherlock smiled even wider.

"He thinks you're a perfect match for me."

The look of pleased surprise on Molly's face gave him infinite pleasure. She picked up her drink and held it in the air. "I'll drink to that."

Sherlock raised his own drink and joined her in a toast. Then they both settled into their evening together with relish.

* * *

 _ **Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! :)**_

 _ **As you can see, things are gearing up for the big parent visit, and Mycroft has been quite affected by Sherrinford and is starting to question some things. His and Sherlock's relationship is also a bit softer due to it.**_

 _ **Also, I adore Mrs. Hudson. LOL.**_

 _ **For those who love snarky Sherlock, now that two chapters have been devoted to setting up Molly and Sherlock and getting them to a stable place, next chapter will get to see more of Sherlock as the snarky detective and hopefully combine the man-child and maturing-man-in-love together into the same Sherlock Holmes. Yay!**_ _ **I foresee perhaps four or five more chapters to complete this fic. :)** _


	11. Chapter 11

_**Oh look another big chapter! Lol. I'm having a good time pulling threads together. They are slowly but surely knitting …**_

 _ **Thanks for all your wonderful feedback guys. It keeps me writing! Hope you enjoy this one!**_

 **Chapter 11**

"The vendor was helping to run something illegally." _Sherlock's fingertips graze his lips. Shadowy figures in black shift back and forth._

 _John, as always, goes for the basics._ "Drugs? Weapons?" _Bags of cocaine and machine guns flit past and dissipate._

"No." _Wisps of dissolved matter clear, leaving a blank space._

"Why not?"

"Too big. Unless he's hiding the key to a warehouse full of them there's no need for him to be involved." _The vendor's stall and the van he used to move his merchandise back and forth fill to overflowing with crates and bags, pushing open the doors and spilling out._ "No." _The stall and van evaporate._ "This item was small."

 _The vendor's stall materializes. Tables and racks are arranged neatly._

"Vendor takes delivery of said item and thinks he has secreted away the correct one." _A question mark floats over the space and slides into a dark corner, leaving the stall as it first appeared._ "But he didn't." _Customers and tourists filter through._ "He's selling his wares as usual. His mistake is only realized when his partners arrive to collect. He doesn't have the real one, he can't find it. They threaten his life. It's possible they give him a small window of time to rectify his error."

 _Shadowy threats loom over the vendor, he runs into the night._

"He searches his stock. Nothing. He thinks perhaps he sold it. But he's sold a variety of items to many people that day. He doesn't know who he sold it to. Most customers use cash in a place like his, cards would provide only a fraction of help. In a panic, he rushes to retrieve the item before it's too late. But he doesn't know who has it. He's grasping at straws now, and he can recall one patron clearly."

 _Nameless faceless multitudes parade through the stall, but only one is recognizable. David Higgins._

"David said he often went through the stalls after performing to look for small items he could include in costumes for Bobby. He must have frequented the vendor's stall that day. David was someone memorable and easily identified. The vendor found out where else David performed, waited outside and attacked him."

 _David Higgins drops to the ground of a filthy alley, choking and gasping for breath. Hands open his case and paw through it._

"But the vendor has never lived this life of crime before, and clearly he had never seen David performing, only afterward when David did some shopping with Bobby securely in his case. David's preferred performing place was at the top of Portobello road, where he could attract the largest crowds before they were distracted by shopping. Far away from the vendor's stall. And his big case looked like the perfect place to hide shoplifted items stolen from vendors."

 _The significant distance from the vendor's stall to the top of Portobello Road flashes by in a rapid fast forward._

"But David hadn't stolen anything and the vendor was surprised by Bobby's face in the dark. He quickly realized his error and fled." _Bobby's face grins through the darkness, footfalls run away. David Higgins crawls to his case, still gasping._

"So what was the item? What could be so innocuous and easily hidden in a vendor stall that sells trinkets, souvenirs, postcards, and incense? Unless the next clue falls into our lap we may never know…"

 ** _Thud._**

Sherlock's eyes popped open. "What was that?" He was in his chair, fingers steepled as he ran the case facts through his mind. He expected to find John across from him in his own chair, but he wasn't, though his laptop on the small table next to it indicated he had been recently. Sherlock ran a hand over his hair, still deep in thought, but John's voice pulled him abruptly out of his theories.

"Sherlock! Little help?"

Sherlock's gaze snapped to the floor in front of the doorway. There was now a man sprawled on it, John kneeling by his side. Sherlock's gaze took in the man and his odd dress, from his rough tunic and leggings, leather jerkin with fuzzy trim and matching belt, to his hand-made thin soled boots and finally to the empty scabbard dangling limply from his hand. He looked like he had walked out of the seventeenth century. Sherlock's mind started cataloging details and immediately moved to drawing conclusions. He left his chair and stood over the new arrival's feet as John lifted an eyelid and peered in, patting his cheek to check for a response.

"No, he's gone. Getting up the stairs must have taken every last bit of strength he had." John now had two fingers on the stranger's neck, and he clearly could find no pulse.

"Curious. Why would someone dressed as a man out of time come to see me, and how did he die?"

John shrugged. "Dunno. It's Tuesday, I suppose?" John had stopped being shocked by the unusual and odd occurrences that just seemed to happen around Sherlock long ago.

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "We'd better text Greg, get someone over here. When I said drop in our laps I wasn't asking for this exactly but who am I to reject providence when it occurs?" He gave John a cheeky grin and texted a quick message.

CLIENT ARRIVED AND PROMPTLY DIED. PLEASE SEND OFFICERS. –SH

John's head snapped up. "When you said—! You haven't said anything for forty-five minutes. I was about to finish my blog, collect Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and go home." John's mood was not improving as he realized that once again his best friend had been so deep in his mind palace that he hadn't even realized he was there.

"Nonsense, you and I were having a conversation about the ventriloquist case—"

"No, you and you were having one, deep in your mind palace and the only reason I'm not punching your lights out is because at the very least you don't seem to be high." John glared at Sherlock over the extremely recently deceased body of their newest client.

In light of this new and unflattering information, Sherlock strove for a look of composure. "I see. Sorry, I hadn't realized. This case is beginning to take shape and that's always when I need to contemplate it the most." John was still staring at him, trying to decide if his apology was good enough, so he piled a bit more on to make sure. "You're right, I am not high, and if it makes you feel any better you were a very good conversation partner just now. Very helpful."

"If by 'very helpful' you mean I stand there and let you impress me with your brilliance, then yes, I'm sure I was."

"John, don't be so hard on yourself," Sherlock's tone was soothing, and just then his phone rang. He raised the phone to his ear and threw out the last as an afterthought. "You were sitting, of course."

John's glare should have reduced Sherlock to ash. Sherlock had turned away to give further detail to Greg over the phone and didn't notice.

Once the corpse had been collected and taken to Bart's Hospital, Sherlock turned to John. "Fancy a bit of theatre?"

"I don't feel like taking in a show, I need to get Rosie down early tonight. She's teething again."

"No need to worry, this is the best way to go to the theatre." Sherlock was already locating his hat. "Check to see what play companies in London are performing Shakespeare and if any of them are missing an actor." He headed down the stairs.

"Missing—oh." John pulled open the laptop again and began typing.

* * *

The actor was later identified as Grant Perkins, and he had been midway through a dress rehearsal for a production of Henry V when he suddenly went missing between one scene and the next. No cast or crew could give any answers on why he went to see Sherlock or how he ended up dead. Sherlock prowled the theatre but found little, then interrogated the cast members who had been friendly with Perkins. John found his questions asking about a wife or girlfriend somewhat odd. Now that Sherlock had a girlfriend he seemed to be taking an interest in everyone else's love lives. It was jarring.

Late that afternoon Sherlock entered the lab at Bart's, immediately scanning the room for a petite brunette in a lab coat. Molly was at a microscope, her back to him as she peered down at a slide with a sliver of tissue on it. Sherlock smiled deviously, his eyes gleaming.

"Excuse me, Doctor Hooper. I am in need of some ears and I thought you might help me." He swaggered a few steps further into the lab, zeroing in on her.

Molly's lips twitched in a smile, but she didn't move. "Sherlock, I'm at work. If you needed body parts you could have texted me." She could feel him standing behind her, even if he didn't respond. Finally, she relented. "How many ears do you need?"

She was expecting him to answer the question verbally, so she jumped slightly when his hands suddenly grasped her waist and she felt his chest brush up against her back. His voice rumbled in her ear as his lips delicately brushed the outer curve.

"I don't know…one…two…" He switched ears and nibbled the opposite one. Molly shivered in delight. "Or maybe just the lobes?" He focused his attention on her earlobe, gently wrapping his lips around it.

Molly forced herself to focus. "Sherlock, I'm at work."

It didn't discourage him in the slightest. "True…" He was moving to her neck now.

Molly turned around in his arms, realizing how close they were as she did. He could rest his hands on the table behind her easily without even moving, they were that close. As tempting as he was at such a close range, Molly refused to compromise her professional standards. She was not going to get caught snogging Sherlock Holmes during working hours. She raised her eyes and looked directly into his, unflinching.

"Sherlock, I'm at work." Her tone was firm.

His mouth turned down, like a little boy. She waited. Finally Sherlock sighed, disappointed but not hurt. "Unfortunately."

"Thank you." Molly gave him a fond look as he moved back a step. "Do you still need ears?"

"Perhaps. The ones you have attached will do fine. Make sure you bring them home tonight." Sherlock's eyebrow shot up, prompting Molly to laugh.

"I can do that."

Sherlock's eyes were caressing her face, warm and tender as he smiled at her. Molly bit her lip, brimming with delight. Before either could say anything else, John pushed the door open and stuck his head around it.

"Safe to come in here?" He looked from one to the other, grinning.

If Molly hadn't experienced firsthand Sherlock without his protective facade, she might have questioned his sincerity. The moment the door opened, before John even had his head in enough to see them, his face slid into his typical indifference, removed from emotions and all the messy bits that came with them. It was an impressive thing to watch, especially because Molly knew she was one of very few who had ever witnessed it.

Now, he gave John a somewhat disdainful look. "Please, John, just because Molly and I are dating doesn't mean we're going to be indecent about it."

John winced as his good-natured ribbing fell flat. He shook his head, his disappointment evident. "I don't know how you can even deal with him, Molly."

"He's difficult, but I'm up to it," Molly was chewing her lip to keep from laughing at Sherlock's narrowed eyes, now focused on her and promising retribution later. "So, why are you really here?" As much as she knew Sherlock loved teasing her, she was well aware that her newest post-mortem had died on Sherlock's floor earlier. Greg had informed her before the body arrived.

Sherlock reluctantly focused on the case. "Grant Perkins, any chance you have something on his cause of death?"

"Actually I do," Molly pulled a chart closer, Sherlock leaned over to look. "No signs of violence of any kind, but no natural cause either."

"Poison?" Sherlock glanced over the file.

"That was my thought as well, but all the usual ones were ruled out when I checked."

Sherlock was frowning at the file. "Then how did he die?"

Molly smiled proudly. "I had a hunch, and when I checked his cardiac muscle it didn't have the normal texture or color."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes were lighting up. Molly flipped a page on the file to the next one.

"Yes. There was too little blood in the vessels than would be usual for a man of this size and weight, and the smooth muscle was tight and abnormally high in tone and elasticity." Molly's speech was beginning to speed up as she warmed to her topic. Sherlock was hanging on every word. John stood behind them both, his arms crossed and an inscrutable look on his face as he looked from one to the other. "So I ran some tests to see what could produce that kind of result in cardiac tissue."

"And?" Sherlock was almost breathless. Just as intrigued and very proud, Molly was lit up as she pointed to a specific area on the report listing her findings.

"Sustained paralysis of the cardiac tissue, probably for fifteen minutes or more, until the heart failed due to its inability to pump. It's like it was contracting in the usual way and forgot to expand again, then became tighter and tighter."

"Brilliant," Sherlock breathed. "Did you find any—"

"—chemical compounds that shouldn't be there?" Molly finished for him. John's eyebrows rose considerably. "Yes, I ran a test for two specific kinds of neurotoxin, waiting to get that back, and I was studying the tissue when you arrived." She pointed at the microscope. Sherlock immediately put his face to it so he could study it too. Molly backed away, beaming. John looked at her, realizing this felt like the time he took a tyre lever into a crack den and Mary told him it was sexy. Maybe Sherlock wasn't as disappointing as he feared. Every couple had their own language.

Sherlock was still at the microscope but whatever he was seeing made him very happy. "Oh, that's gorgeous Molly! But how did they—"

"—I don't know, but I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it." Molly met his eyes as he turned from the microscope and faced her. Sherlock grinned back and then got down to business.

"I need you to perform a head to toe examination of the body, look for any kind of puncture wound, anywhere it could have been introduced. It would have to be minuscule or you'd have seen it in your first examination."

"That was my next task, I'll let you know." Molly was unperturbed at the request. "It would have to be in the upper torso so it limits the search considerably." Sherlock's chest puffed with pride in her abilities.

"Well done," he kissed her quickly. She didn't object, even though John was present. "Got to go, see you tonight?"

"Of course." She was beautiful in her casual discussion of their relationship in front of John with only a minor flick of her eyes toward him. Sherlock was thrilled to see the progress.

"I look forward to it." Sherlock turned to the door and only then seemed to remember John was standing there. "Come on, John. I need to talk to Greg." He opened the door and turned back for a last look at Molly. "Don't forget those ears, love." He winked at her and left her blushing and delighted.

John, a silent witness to the entire proceedings, now decided that in light of the new information he wasn't going to worry about his friend's ability to be romantic with Molly.

"Nice work, Molly. Really, nice work all the way around." He gave her a look so she'd know he meant more than her forensic work.

Molly's smile was serene and happy. "Thanks. See you later."

* * *

Sherlock and John stumped up the stairs of Baker Street once more and found Mrs. Hudson waiting there with Rosie.

Mrs. Hudson's nose was wrinkled in distaste. "What's that smell? Are your body parts going off again?"

"In a manner of speaking, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock tossed his hat onto his desk. "A client arrived and died while you were out. But he has been removed, so I highly doubt that accounts for the smell."

"It's Rosie's diaper," John had just sat down in his chair with his daughter and was wrinkling his own nose now. "Mrs. Hudson, didn't you notice—"

"Ah, dead body, that must be it." Mrs. Hudson gave them a quick smile and head for the stairs faster than a woman her age should have been able to. John gave Sherlock a look, realizing Rosie's godmother had never actually changed a diaper on Rosie and apparently had no intention to in the near future.

Sherlock repressed an appreciative smirk and fetched Rosie's diaper bag from the table, depositing it on the floor next to John's chair. "It seems Mrs. Hudson still has some skill at deflecting unpleasant duties."

John was already expertly changing his daughter on his lap, shaking his head in annoyance. "Considering how much I put up with from you and everyone else we know, I am amazed at how terrified you all are of a diaper full of sh—."

The sound of a spray can dispensing disinfectant masked his last word as he finished. Mrs. Hudson was back and saturating the air with it. John lifted the diaper and attempted to hand it off to Sherlock, but the latter had already lifted the now sweet smelling Rosie off his lap and stepped away. "Don't want her breathing that stuff, do we?" He beamed into the baby's face as he left John holding the soiled diaper.

"Mrs. Hudson's not the only one avoiding unpleasant duties," John grumbled as he folded the diaper into a tight wad and taped it shut. He took it to the kitchen and returned to find Mrs. Hudson had sprayed and left. It was a good opportunity to approach the subject he'd had on his mind all day. He wandered over to the client chair and pulled it over into its usual spot as if there was a client, sat in it, and faced Sherlock who was bouncing Rosie in his arms by the fireplace.

"Sherlock, I need to ask for a favor."

Sherlock glanced his way, brow creasing at John in the client chair but refraining from a comment on it. "Oh? What would that be?"

"Could you watch Rosie tonight for a few hours?"

"Me? Alone?" Sherlock's voice had an edge of panic to it. John could commiserate. Mrs. Hudson needed a break after this afternoon, and Sherlock wasn't his first thought, even thought he was reasonably sure he could handle it. Well, halfway sure. "Maybe Molly can help you tonight since you're together now. I need to perform some interviews."

Sherlock's eyes lost the panicked look as he thought it over. An evening with Molly and Rosie…that sounded much better. Reassured, his mind leaped to the last word from John. "What kind of interviews?"

"A…nanny, of sorts." John could see the question already forming on Sherlock's face. "I need someone permanent to watch Rosie during weekdays while I'm at work. Your schedule is too unpredictable, Molly works full time too and Mrs. Hudson shouldn't have to shoulder the entire burden."

Sherlock held Rosie close and absently brushed his lips on her hair. It was clear that John wasn't delighted with this solution, even if it was the most logical choice. But logical or not, John was showing guilt and sorrow at having to do it because it felt too much like replacing Mary, which was understandable.

"Of course, John." John nodded and relaxed a bit, which was probably too soon because Sherlock had an idea immediately occur.

"Are you sure you don't want me present to help you interview possible caregivers for Rosie?"

"You mean 'help' by deducing each and every one of them, so no."

Sherlock persisted. "I might see flaws you don't."

"No. Thank you," John's tone was firm. "This is my responsibility. I'm going to do it."

Sherlock made a noise of disagreement. "It's my responsibility as godfather to protect Rosie from all possible harm. Molly is off tonight, she could—"

John abandoned his attempts to let Sherlock down gently. "Sherlock, the last thing I need is you driving away any possible employees I have managed to line up for interviews. You're staying here." John's voice brooked no refusal. "I am invoking my rights as Rosie's father to interview alone."

"Fine." Sherlock pulled a face before another inspiration struck. "Then I invoke my rights as godfather to evaluate any finalists before they are officially hired. Just to weed out the mass murderers and criminals. Rosie deserves the best."

Considering it was unlikely his interviews would consist of large portions of the criminal classes, John was about to object. But after further thought, he decided it was actually a good idea. Sherlock would see things he didn't and considering his wife had been an ex-assassin and he hadn't even known it, perhaps it was for the best. After all, Rosie's safety and well-being were paramount. "All right. Fine. I will interview the candidates and decide who I want to hire, then you can come in and—"

"— give final approval?" Sherlock had a self-important look on his face, which made John grind his teeth and make an effort to remove it.

"—make sure there's nothing going on with them that would harm Rosie." John ended with a look that made it clear he was granting Sherlock this right, not having it wrested from him.

Sherlock smiled, supremely pleased to be considered useful in the process. Rosie was looking at him with a tiny finger in her mouth, her baby cheeks chubby and flushed, her eyes bright. Sherlock felt an unexpected warmth rush into his chest. He abruptly found it less crucial that he feel important and more so that Rosie was safe and happy. He never wanted anything to happen to her. He turned her to face her father and adopted a warmer and higher pitched voice than John had ever heard from him. "Look! Who's that? That's Daddy! Say hi Daddy!"

Surprised, John thrust his feelings on hiring a caregiver away and reached for his daughter, laughing at his best friend's surprising antics. Sherlock handed Rosie over and as John accepted her familiar and welcome weight he pressed a kiss on her cheek. "That's my girl, that's my Rosie."

They were interrupted by Greg puffing up the stairs. "Sherlock, I brought him over, found him for you." He looked overwhelmed, absently scratching the side of his head and pointing at Sherlock. He had the air of a man pulled in far too many directions at once.

"David Higgins?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," Greg gestured. "He's waiting downstairs. Told him you had some questions for him. His throat's better so he can talk now."

"Good." Sherlock hastened down the stairs. "Thanks, Greg."

"Probably forgot to ask if Bobby was seeing anyone," John chuckled. Greg decided even if that was the case he wanted to see it and headed back down as well.

* * *

Not long after, John had left for his interviews and Sherlock was alone with Rosie. He had already texted with Molly and informed her of their new charge, and she had readily agreed. Sherlock laid a blanket on the floor for Rosie to roll on and surrounded her with a few toys from her diaper bag. It reminded him of the occasions when Mary had been alive and visited with the baby, which had been quite often. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sherlock picked up a small stuffed bunny with a bell hidden inside and shook it above Rosie's head, using the sight and sound to attract her attention. The baby reached for it with chubby hands, and he held it lower so she could grab it and bring it to her mouth. She really was teething. Sherlock smiled and wondered if he should provide some soothing gum massage but decided against it when he noted the other sharp additions that had recently emerged.

Twenty minutes later Rosie was bored, fussy and unappeasable. She wavered in and out of whimpers and actual crying. Sherlock was slowly running out of ideas to please her and had taken to walking the floor with her, shushing and crooning and begging her to be happy. He suspected her teeth were to blame and gave her some of the medicine John had told him to use from the bag, but he wasn't sure how much got on him instead of in her and it certainly didn't seem to be making much difference.

About five minutes before he was going to lose his mind, Molly had let herself in with her new key and came rushing up the stairs. "Hello!"

"Molly, thank God. I can't make her happy." Sherlock's face was pleading for assistance.

Molly deposited her bag and a sack of groceries in the kitchen and quickly relieved Sherlock of the baby. She smiled into Rosie's face and when the baby opened her mouth to wail again sneaked a peek at her gums. "Oh, she's teething, poor girl. Look at your red gums."

"I ascertained that as well but the medicine seems to be doing very little." Sherlock didn't even bother trying to appear in control. He just needed Rosie happy.

Molly's glance at him took in the pink stains on his shirt that were clearly liquid pain reliever and she decided not to comment. "How long ago?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "Twenty-three minutes."

Molly nodded. "Shouldn't be long now. We need something cold to ease the pain until it sets in. What do you have in your freezer?"

Sherlock searched his memory. "Um, toes, an eyeball, ice, and a rat I trapped on a case once."

Molly's face scrunched up. "Maybe not for a baby. I'll go see what Mrs. Hudson has. For now," she handed Rosie back to Sherlock "run a clean cloth under very cold water and use it to massage her gums." She kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Be right back."

Sherlock contemplated the available towels he had. "How clean?"

"Very clean!" Molly's voice echoed back up the stairs, as she was already halfway down.

Sherlock looked around. "Very clean, very clean…oh! Here, Rosie, I have an idea."

When Molly returned with a large freshly washed, peeled and very cold carrot, she found Sherlock sitting on the couch with Rosie on his lap. Their goddaughter was still lightly fretting but much calmer as she gummed a thick gauze pad Sherlock had to have had leftover from dressing his wound after being shot. He had run it under cold water and wrung it out. Molly's lips quirked.

"A gauze pad?"

"It was unopened, thus sterile and that made it very clean, as you put it." Sherlock returned, only slightly defensive once he saw her smiling at him.

Molly didn't bother pointing out that babies weren't sterile and any washed towel probably would have been fine. As it was, the state of Sherlock's kitchen always left room for doubt as to how "clean" something was, so maybe it was the better option.

"I'm glad you take your godfather duties so seriously, Sherlock." Molly sat next to them and gently removed the gauze pad from Rosie's mouth and grip, replacing it with the carrot. She made sure the larger stem end was pointing up and held it in place until Rosie had tested the new item and decided it was satisfactory. "There. Any bits she gnaws off will be too small to choke on, but we should keep her sitting up and observed until she's done." Molly settled onto the couch next to Sherlock and enjoyed the sight of Rosie propped up on his chest, soothing her gums with small grunts and sighs.

Sherlock was enjoying the sights he had as well. His gaze moved from Rosie to Molly with contented pleasure. "You are amazing, Molly Hooper. Is there anything you don't know?"

Molly grinned. "Just all the things you don't." That prompted a laugh from Sherlock, who was now in a very good mood.

"Then I think we make a good team. Don't you?"

Molly smiled back. "Yeah, I do." Sherlock beamed.

They shifted to conversation about the case and lab results Molly had received that confirmed their theory about the murder and the very small puncture wound Molly had found on the victim's neck. It was over the right external jugular vein, which deposited blood into the subclavian vein and then the heart.

"Someone knew what they were doing," Sherlock murmured. "Someone knew exactly where to inject for the fastest and best effect. They didn't just happen to inject the right place they had to locate it first. We're looking for someone with knowledge about the human body and how to exploit it."

Molly was nodding. "Exactly, and how anyone got their hands on such a concentrated version of that toxin is a large mystery. Honey can have it in tiny amounts, but not enough to kill a man, and it's only dangerous for babies."

"Clostridium Botulinum," Sherlock's voice was thick with memories. "We meet again. Carl Powers was killed with it by Moriarty when they were young, but this is a much more deadly version. Concentrated, powerful, with rapid effects. Injected straight into one of the major veins that feed into the heart, it can kill a man fast. Someone created this, it doesn't happen naturally. Nasty way to die."

"Agreed. One other thing, I found a small nick on an ear, up high on the crest. Humans often have open areas from scratching or other imperfections, but there was no sign of healing."

"So it happened close to his time of death?" Sherlock mulled that over. "A wristwatch could make such a nick if someone had him pushed up against the wall." Sherlock held his arm up to demonstrate. "Across the chin, forcing the neck to distend and thus making the vein easier to find."

"My findings correlate with that, yes."

"Perfect. If I find the watch, I find the killer. Such a small blood drop may not be noticed, especially if it's on the clasp." Sherlock looked down and realized Rosie's medicine must have kicked in because she was now asleep, drooping down Sherlock's chest, still holding the carrot. "Looks like Rosie feels better."

Molly smiled softly at the baby and leaned over to gently make sure Rosie wasn't holding a chunk of carrot in her mouth she could choke on. Satisfied that Rosie was free of choking hazards, she sat back and wiped her finger on a clean area of the gauze pad. "Good to know my knowledge isn't wasted. I always thought I'd have kids someday and did a lot of preparing when I was younger…" Her voice drifted away as she realized what had just come out, and she gave Sherlock a stricken look.

Sherlock took the statement in stride. "Don't you think you'll still have children someday?"

"I—I don't know. I thought I would with Tom, but now—" Molly couldn't put words to her fear that she was rapidly running out of time, and she had never pictured Sherlock as someone who would want them. The comfortable ease they had developed felt awkward now, rife with unspoken worries and fears. It couldn't be clearer Molly didn't see that kind of future with him. She looked down at her hands.

Sherlock seemed to understand all of this without her speaking a word. He looked at the sleeping Rosie on his chest, once an impossible idea for him, now welcome and adored. He looked at the woman right next to him, admitting for the first time that he had never considered children but now that the subject was broached he wasn't fundamentally opposed to it as he once had been. If he was going to have children at all, he couldn't imagine it being with anyone but Molly Hooper. But all in good time, of course.

He slid a long finger under her chin to gently lift it up so he could see her eyes. "You do yourself a disservice, Molly. I don't think that's impossible. We still have time." His mouth turned up on one side to reassure her.

 _We. We still have time._ Molly felt almost dizzy. What was happening, how had so much changed so fast? It went a long way in convincing her how far Sherlock's intentions went. Still, how could he be so casually confident about it? Didn't he know how hard it was to maintain a relationship even in the best of circumstances before the craziness they seemed to attract came in? Full of doubt, she gave him a wavering smile.

"Wait and see, I guess." She didn't know what else to say and that seemed to cover it.

"Yes, we will." He carefully leaned closer to steal a kiss, careful of the sleeping Rosie. "We should let her rest. John has a foldaway cot in his old room."

"Can we hear her up there?"

"Already brought down the monitor, just in case." Sherlock nodded to the kitchen table that showed a small receiver waiting to be turned on.

"Right, let me take her." Molly stood up, collected a blanket and gently gathered the sleeping child into her arms. Sherlock stood and watched her ascend the stairs, then went to the table to turn on the monitor. While he waited for Molly to return, he picked up his violin.

Molly cuddled Rosie closer as she climbed the stairs and entered John's old room. The foldaway cot was already set up, baby monitor on the nightstand. She smiled to herself as she gently laid the baby down and covered her with the blanket. Then she took a moment to stand and catch her breath.

She was almost terrified, afraid to believe all the sudden changes were real. She had come to terms with a lot of it, but this new spin had her reeling. It was just so unreal. She realized she wanted to slow down because she felt almost paralyzed about their future. She just wanted things to stay the same as long as possible so they didn't come to an end.

She took some deep measured breaths and watched Rosie sleep. She needed to deal with this. Logically, not just with emotions. She closed her eyes and pictured Sherlock telling her he loved her, how he played for her, their exchange in the lab today, their first night together when he dropped all his protective walls…

Her eyes popped open. Sometimes he appeared so confident about their relationship she forgot Sherlock was just as afraid as she was. But his fear was less about how they felt for each other and more about getting around walls he felt protected and safe behind. It was a frightening thing. But he was doing it. She could see that every day. He was risking getting hurt, suffering loss or heartbreak. Because it was what he needed to do to be whole and he wanted to do it with her.

She felt incomplete too. She was afraid this was too good to last, that somehow she wouldn't merit the long lasting love or affection that a long term relationship required. She was afraid it was too intense and would burn out quickly. She was afraid to completely commit and too invested to pull away.

Rosie shifted in her sleep and breathed a shaky sigh. Molly realized she was hearing violin strains drift up the stairs. Sherlock was playing her song. The notes flowed over her and wrapped her in warmth. She looked at the baby and almost unwillingly pictured one with dark curls.

It was terrifying, it was foreign. It was new and incredibly wonderful. And she had to try. She had to see it through to the end, whatever that might turn out to be. Because she could never throw away a chance with Sherlock out of fear. She exhaled a long shaky sigh of her own and surrendered.

She smiled down at Rosie, realizing that Sherlock had skipped the minor key second movement of her song and begun the first movement again. Obviously, he was in a positive mood and wanted music to reflect that. She realized she felt the same.

She quietly turned on the monitor and slipped out the door. The violin drew her down the stairs, irresistible and beguiling. She let it pull her down to the second floor. When she came to the doorway the room was bright with the setting sun. She looked at the couch and realized Sherlock was no longer there, he was behind his chair by the far window. He was playing as he faced the doorway, alert and waiting for her. Molly didn't try to contain the joy that spread through her once she saw him. It warmed her and made her feel like she was overflowing with liquid sunlight. She realized her face was splitting in a huge smile and finally, everything felt right.

Molly left the doorway and moved toward Sherlock.

Whatever the future held, she was going to embrace it.

* * *

 _ **I had a great time writing this chapter but hands down the most fun was Molly and Sherlock in the lab. What adorable nerds!**_

 _ **But also I really loved getting to show Molly overcome her fears and doubts and be able to make it coincide with her**_

 _ **beautiful last moment in the series. I feel fulfilled now.**_

 _ **Next week's chapter will include the much anticipated parent visit with Eurus. :)**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Happy Friday! Have a chapter. We're nearing the end but still a few more to go. I'm really enjoying writing the Sherlolly stuff now that the pining is over, lol that's always my favorite part. They are such a wonderful couple.**_

 _ **Anyway…thanks for all your wonderful reviews and support, it really helps. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it!** _

**Chapter 12**

It was early Thursday morning when Molly woke and found herself alone in Sherlock's bedroom. She rubbed her eyes and debated whether she wanted to leave the soft warmth but considering what day it was, it was probably a good idea. Sherlock had requested they sleep at his flat tonight since he was hoping to get a good night's sleep before his family visited Eurus. The night before they had stayed at Molly's flat and he had been rudely awakened several times by a weight on the center of his chest and a fluffy cat tail tickling his nose. He and Toby were still working through the details of their truce, to Molly's great amusement.

Since there didn't seem to be any lights on in the flat Molly didn't turn on any either. The sun wasn't up yet but the sky was light enough to provide some basic illumination filtering through the curtains. She slid into the silky purple dressing gown that was rapidly becoming her favorite and slipped noiselessly down the hall.

Sherlock was in front of the window, looking out at the city, holding his violin in both hands. He cut a striking figure there, already dressed for the day, his silhouette a dark contrast to the lit window. Molly took a moment to appreciate it before she spoke.

"Sherlock?" She kept her voice soft so as not to startle him, but he must have known she was there because he barely showed any reaction at all. Something about his posture caught her attention, though. "You all right?"

Sherlock didn't look around, but a rueful smile curved his lips. Of course she would see it. He slid his hands over the violin, tuning it with motions so tiny that Molly got the feeling he just needed something to distract himself rather than perform any actual instrument maintenance.

"Why do you ask?" His voice was soft too as if he didn't want to disrupt the silence. And even though he didn't look at her she could tell that he was brimming with emotions but unable to properly verbalize them.

She smiled softly and moved closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing herself against him. He used one hand to put his violin on its stand so he could run both of his hands over her arms before intertwining their fingers together. Molly laid her head on his back.

"I don't know, maybe because today's the day your parents see Eurus for the first time in decades, and there's a lot of tension that comes with that. Maybe because you worry you're asking too much of Eurus and the visit will be more of a detriment than helpful to her. Maybe because you've been working toward this for weeks but now that it's here you think it's too soon, and the mental well-being of your entire family for the foreseeable future hangs in the balance." Her arms gave him a gentle squeeze to let him know she understood even if he couldn't say it. Some of the tension left his body.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have pushed her into this. I don't want to cause a relapse." He relaxed his grip on her fingers enough to turn around so he could see her face. In the dim light his eyes searched hers, filled with worry and thinly veiled fear.

Molly's gaze was soft. She lightly brushed his cheek with her hand. "You told me the entire point of Eurus putting you through those challenges was to break down your walls. She helped you, but it wasn't pain-free and it wasn't easy. Would you change it, now?"

"No," His answer was immediate. His eyes swept her face, and she knew that their relationship was a big reason for that answer, even though she also knew there were many other ways his growth and change had benefited his life. She smiled.

"It won't be easy and perfect for Eurus either, but this is a good thing for her." Molly put a hand in the middle of his chest. "And you'll be there. You can be her strength."

Sherlock's eyes were almost black in the predawn light. The soft velvety blue of his shirt, the purple of her dressing gown and the soft shadows in the room created a feeling of solitary seclusion around them. They were all alone with just each other in a silent world, undisturbed.

Sherlock's hands moved to her shoulders, fingertips gently caressing the silken fabric. He looked into her eyes, awash with feelings. He chose his words slowly and carefully, spacing them for greater effect.

"You…are…my…strength, Molly Hooper. You have been for years."

Molly was touched beyond the usual measure, tears pricking her eyelids. She put both her hands on either side of his neck. "You're stronger than you think, Sherlock. You could get along without me if you had to."

"Perhaps," Sherlock was still staring into her eyes, intense and expressive. "But…I…don't…want to..." His arms were slowly closing the distance between them, even though it hadn't been large to begin with. Their faces were so close their breaths mingled when Molly replied.

"Good. Because I don't want to go anywhere." Her statement was punctuated with a tiny moan as Sherlock captured her lips and kissed her passionately. She would never get over how intense he was, and how much she loved it.

When they finally parted Sherlock's eyes were still dark and intense, but now for a different reason. His gaze ran down her form, clad in his silky purple. He let a finger glide over the collar. "Have I told you how much I enjoy seeing you in this?"

"No. Thank you, it's nice to hear the words." Molly's eyes were sparkling and content.

"Sorry, sometimes I'm too much in my mind and I forget to say it aloud. But still, showing you is good too…"

Sherlock moved suddenly and lifted her into his arms bridal style, high on his chest. Her legs were suddenly bare from the knees down as her dressing gown parted and fell away, his grip on her the only thing that prevented it going further. Sherlock gave the shapely limbs an appreciative glance as he settled his arm in the crook of her knees. After a surprised exclamation, Molly put her arms around his neck and he used the opportunity to kiss her once more. When he pulled back his face was filled with an almost savage joy that made her heart swell painfully. Sherlock had repressed things for years thinking it would make him smarter and better protected. His coping methods had resulted in a distinct lack of relationships during that time. And yet, it was clear to Molly that he had no regrets since it meant he had been ultimately heading to this point and time, in a world alone with Molly Hooper. She could only agree.

But she couldn't help teasing him. "You have places to be soon Sherlock, and you're already dressed."

Sherlock kissed her soundly again. "I only have one place to be right now, and my state of dress can easily be rectified."

He strode down the hall toward the bedroom with determined strides as Molly giggled in delight.

* * *

Hours later Sherlock was straightening the cuffs on his shirt and making sure there were still buttons in all the right places. (Every once in a while he found he was missing a few after time with Molly.) Once all buttons were accounted for he checked his appearance one last time. Satisfied, he went to the living room to pack his violin into the black bag. He zipped it shut and turned to see Molly leaning against the open sliding doors that led to the kitchen with a cup of coffee in one hand and a smile on her lips. Slowly approaching, he stopped in front of her so he could kiss her goodbye just as slowly. He rested his forehead on hers for a moment, gathering himself, and she knew that he was still nervous about the impending visit.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. It'll go fine."

"I hope so. See you tonight?"

"Yep. I have to go home and change before work. Should I bring dinner?"

"Sounds good. I'll let you know if I'm on a case."

"As usual. I'll have a chat with Toby, see if I can soften him up." Molly was smiling, trying to lighten his mood before he left. He allowed it.

"Hmmm. Maybe I should grab some catnip while I'm out today."

"Absolutely not. You are not going to get my cat high to make him like you, Sherlock Holmes." She poked his chest lightly.

They both laughed, and he kissed her forehead. "See you later."

"Tell Eurus I said hi."

"Once more into the fray…"

He breathed it without thinking, so comfortable baring his soul in front of her now. He realized what he had said at the same time she did. She tilted her head, giving him an inquiring look as she repeated the phrase silently, searching her memory. Sherlock waited.

She didn't remember. He could tell by the look on her face. But she almost did. It was hovering on the edge of her mind, something telling her she should know this and why Sherlock was saying it, but unable to completely pull it back. That was okay. Sherlock acknowledged the moment had probably impacted him far more than her at the time. Maybe one day he'd tell her. For now, he was just glad he was around to say it in front of her.

He gave her a soft smile, another quick kiss, and headed out the door. She listened to him descend the stairs and crossed her fingers for the Holmes family.

* * *

The silence of the taxi ride to the helipad was something Sherlock was used to. He got his thoughts in order and prepared as much as possible before he arrived. It was somewhat calming.

The silence on the helipad was also something he was used to, but it did nothing to reassure him.

His parents and Mycroft were already there, and it was clear from their positions that no one knew what to say.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were clustered into one corner of the small waiting area. Mrs. Holmes looked disturbed already, and Sherlock noted how her eyes kept flicking to Mycroft when he wasn't looking. Mr. Holmes simply looked tired. He was planted next to his wife, supportive and protective but also very worried.

Mycroft was in the opposite corner. He was staring straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with all. His briefcase stood at his feet in front of him, providing an extra barrier to anyone who might approach. He gave the appearance of a cool collected man of little emotion, but the small tremor in his hands wrapped tightly around his umbrella and the tight set of his mouth betrayed him to anyone looking for such fine detail. Sherlock was definitely looking.

Sherlock was forcibly reminded of all the awkward family gatherings early in his adulthood until their parents admitted defeat and simply stopped trying to have them. Normal families gathered for holidays and special occasions and were happy to talk about their lives and laugh together. Other normal families got together and grumbled about it but put on a fake smile and dealt with it, even if a squabble erupted now and then. His had never been like either one.

Unspoken, always, was the deeply uncomfortable quality of their family. The children were removed, and the parents unable to break through. In addition, Sherlock had always noted the underlying sadness that had been present, especially in his mother, but he hadn't realized why until now. She had been unconsciously mourning Eurus at every event, aware she was missing one child. But he had hardly spent time wondering about it then. At that point Sherlock had been safely behind his formidable walls, adding a sarcastic comment or observation from time to time but otherwise deeply involved in his own science of deduction obsession and self-education. Mycroft had been perfectly happy to contribute almost nothing to any given conversation, deflecting with remarks about the confidentiality of his job and how little he wanted to be there. Their parents had tried, but after meeting brick wall after brick wall that was now their children as they matured, eventually they gave up trying to make discussion and the family gatherings stopped.

Their visit to Sherlock's flat shortly after he returned from the dead was his mother's new attempt to make contact with him, he knew, but he had been too busy with other things to view it as anything valuable.

There was the Christmas Sherlock had been shot, of course, but even then he had used that opportunity to plan an elaborate heist of his brother's computer and a visit to Magnussen. His mother hadn't spoken to him much after that, and he realized now she must have been deeply disappointed that what she thought was a new opportunity after almost losing Sherlock was instead a plan to drug and abandon them as well. And that night Sherlock had shot Magnussen in the face and never returned to his parent's home.

Sherlock stood in the doorway to the waiting area and observed his broken family. Again, he felt regret well up. It was still a new feeling, but he recognized it now. Certainly not for shooting Magnussen, he spared no feeling for that man, but at the hurt he had caused his parents. He clenched the handles of his bag with new resolve and went to battle.

"Good morning Mother, Father. Glad you could make it." He managed a small polite smile, trying to shift the tide of uncomfortable silence.

His mother looked up in surprise, and he could read the emotions flitting across her face. She would have been delighted at such a greeting if she wasn't worried about Eurus. But she was, and there was a riot of emotions flowing off her right now including worry, anger, and grief. Sherlock decided she was entitled. He tried to imagine what he would do for Molly or Eurus if they weren't separated by glass. What would he do in such a circumstance now? What had he done for John when he was suffering?

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. After a shocked moment, her arms rose to hug him back. Such a simple gesture, but it had such a monumental effect. It felt like he had stepped across an invisible barrier, not unlike the glass that kept Eurus in her cell. Sherlock swallowed thickly. "It's okay, Mum. It's going to be okay." He murmured it into her ear quietly.

Mrs. Holmes' shoulders shook for a moment, the only indication that she was close to weeping. When she stepped away she was in complete control of her emotions. After all, Sherlock and his siblings hadn't acquired their abilities from thin air. Mycroft was watching intently from his corner and had to suppress a look of admiration. Sherlock smiled into her eyes and turned to his father, who looked like he had just been hit with a bag of sand. Sherlock decided he was already in the thick of it and kept going.

"Glad to see you, Dad." He stretched out his hand in an attempt to shake and found himself pulled into a hug as well. He allowed it, even putting his arms around his father too. He was a bit embarrassed when they parted because he knew Mycroft was watching and it felt very discomforting considering he had always striven to be like him, but he pushed those feelings away and smiled at his father.

Finally, he approached Mycroft, aware of the fact that if he attempted the same he was probably going to get an umbrella upside the head. Even a few weeks ago he might have "accidentally" bumped over his brother's briefcase in an act of subtle rebellion. Now, he gave his brother a formal smile and made sure to respect Mycroft's space. "Good morning, brother dear."

"Sherlock," Mycroft nodded briefly, and Sherlock knew his brother appreciated his restraint.

The pilot arrived to tell them the helicopter was ready to go, and everyone collected their assorted belongings and followed him across the helipad. Mr. Holmes climbed in first and reached down to help his wife, Sherlock assisted with a hand on her elbow. Once their parents were settled Sherlock and Mycroft boarded as well.

The sound of the engine and blades was the perfect excuse for not talking during the ride, so the journey passed in silence. The closer they came to Sherrinford, the more distressed Mrs. Holmes became as she looked out over the bare expanse of ocean and pictured her daughter surrounded by such isolation. Mr. Holmes was attuned to her emotions and reached for her hand, squeezing it to reassure her. Sherlock noted the gesture and realized it reminded him of Molly and himself somehow. Mycroft was motionless, staring at a point outside his own window, avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock had been traveling back and forth to Sherrinford for weeks now, and the ride had quickly become familiar and unimpressive. But watching the journey through his mother's eyes gave him a different view of it entirely.

As the island prison came into view, Mrs. Holmes stared at it as if she were facing a man-eating dragon. She was clearly picturing her daughter lost in its bowels, hidden from the world for years. She looked away, but her gaze fell on Mycroft, who refused to meet her eyes. Mrs. Holmes glared at him anyway. Sherlock noted the exchange but felt helpless to do anything about it.

The helicopter landed, and the group disembarked. Mrs. Holmes took in the armed guards at every entrance and fury began to smolder in her eyes. Sherlock had long since stopped noticing them and realized how it must appear to someone removed from this type of thing. Hostile, cold, far from nurturing. Mr. Holmes turned a circle on the helipad and took in the ocean surrounding them on all sides.

They moved through security and into the governor's office. Mycroft produced the necessary clearance for his parents from his briefcase and they all left their belongings behind with the exception of Sherlock, who retained his violin.

There was a small gap at that point as they waited for the final arrangements to be carried out. Sherlock drifted to his parents, again in an opposite corner from Mycroft.

"Please don't speak during the visit. I don't want anything to throw Eurus. She and I communicate through our instruments, you will only be able to observe. I'm sorry, but that's the best we can do at the moment." He kept his voice soft and low.

Mrs. Holmes' jaw was already tight and had been since they landed. It was a wonder she could speak at all. "We'll do our best, Sherlock." Her husband nodded beside her.

"Thank you. Perhaps one day she will be able to talk to us but for now, this is all we have." Sherlock was unable to hide the look of sympathy that crept over his face. His parents looked as if they were a step away from feeling tortured.

The final descent was as usual layer after layer of security. Mrs. Holmes withdrew further and further into herself the deeper they went, Sherlock noted it with recognition and concern. Mr. Holmes simply looked sad. The last checkpoint involved curious, staring guards who had clearly never considered the idea that Eurus actually had parents. Mrs. Holmes glared at every single one and reduced them to staring at their boots. Sherlock placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to give some kind of support.

Finally, they entered Eurus' cell. They all stood for a moment, acclimating to the new conditions. Eurus was sitting in the middle of her bed with her back to them. Sherlock had anticipated that. He knew she was terrified. Their parents were staring at her back, willing her to turn around so they could see her. She didn't move. Mycroft stood furthest in the back, his cool exterior cracking as he watched.

There were chairs sitting on one side of the cell, put there for this visit only. Sherlock didn't say a word but gestured silently for the others to sit. Mr. Holmes guided his wife and sat on the end chair, prompting her to take the middle one. After a moment of delay, Mycroft slowly moved to the far end chair and sat as well. His body was ramrod straight, allowing the maximum distance between himself and his mother. Mrs. Holmes stiffened as well, and Sherlock had to wonder if his father had orchestrated the seating arrangement for a reason. If he had, he was giving no sign of it. Mr. Holmes was staring at Eurus, taking in her long brown hair and slim back, looking grieved.

Sherlock unpacked his violin carefully, aware that his fingers were tremoring slightly. He felt in the spotlight, and not in a way he usually liked. And Eurus was afraid and still hadn't turned around. He could sense the difference, the heightened tension in the room, and realized Eurus might be farther beyond him than she ever had been. There was no turning back, but this might very well result in failure.

He clenched his jaw, determined. He raised his instrument and bow, hoping this could somehow turn out well. His conversation with Molly that morning came back to him. _Be her strength…_

The first note sounded from his violin.

"Eurus, I'm here. Don't worry about anything else."

She didn't move. Sherlock swallowed and tried again.

"Don't float away, I won't let anything happen to you."

Someone shifted in their chair to his left, and he knew they were getting restless and worried. He couldn't think about them right now. Eurus needed him. He pushed his care for the rest of his family into a corner of his mind palace and gently closed the door. He didn't take his mind off his sister.

It took a few moments for him to focus but when he had, he realized he had seen that position before. She was sitting with her knees raised, arms wrapped around her knees to make herself small. Just like she had in her old burned out bedroom when he solved her puzzle. Ah, damn. She was back on the plane. He swallowed and closed his eyes too since he knew hers must be.

Then he began to play.

"Eurus, what does your plane look like? I'll take a guess. Relatively small, not a jumbo jet. Sixteen rows? One row down the middle, and perhaps three seats on each side? Sixteen by six. I'm coming on board. Look for me. I'm taking a deep breath, Eurus. And under we go."

In his mind, her plane began to take shape and form. Sherlock was bringing back every detail she had given him about the plane, back when he thought it was real. He scanned the seats, the people. No Eurus.

Unseen by Sherlock, observed by the rest of the group, Eurus twitched slightly but didn't turn around.

Sherlock hadn't paused. "They're all asleep, aren't they? But I'm not. I don't particularly like planes, but I'll sit here with you until you feel ready. I'll just keep talking until you answer me back." He began to make his way down the plane, searching the rows.

Mycroft realized his face was showing more than he would ever wish to and schooled his features to show as little as possible. But he couldn't school his eyesight to unsee the little girl huddled in front of him, lost and afraid. His eyes flicked to Sherlock, so determined to help her. He could feel the invisible barrier separating him from his mother, from all of them. He had always appreciated it. The protection it afforded and the distance it provided allowed control and calm. But now he felt imprisoned too, in a cell of his own making. He swallowed.

Sherlock was still playing. "It's dark outside, isn't it? But there are still lights. There's still a way down if you want it. I know it feels safer here sometimes, believe me, I know it. But it doesn't help you get better. It just hides you away."

Mrs. Holmes felt her heart tearing in two. Her daughter was so broken. Mr. Holmes was stoic next to her, trying not to show anything but failing. She could feel her daughter's loneliness so acutely it was her own.

"Where are you? Are you in the back? I'm coming from the front. Let me know when I reach you." Sherlock could picture walking down the center aisle of her plane, watching the oxygen masks sway like disturbing pendulums. He wondered if hers had a stewardess passed out in the aisle. "Ah, I don't like when the drink cart is in the way. Or the stewardess for that matter." He realized how awful it was to look at people out cold or dead in their seats. It reminded him of Mycroft's flight of the dead plan. This was no place for a child. His bow sped up without meaning to. "Eurus? Where are you?"

There were muffled gasps from behind him, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"I'm here." Her chosen notes were higher than usual, reflecting the child on the plane intentionally or not.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Eurus at the end of the plane. Her childlike face was pale with fear, her eyes wide. Sherlock stayed where he was. "Eurus, I'm so glad to see you. I've come to play. Will you play with me?" He extended a hand.

There was a suspenseful moment of deliberation. She reached to take hold of his hand.

Both Sherlock and Eurus opened their eyes at the same time. The room was warm with golden lighting, silent but for the sustained notes on two violins being drawn out as they looked at each other. Eurus' eyes flicked to his left.

"Look at me, Eurus. Just look at me. Let's play." There would be time later for her to look at their parents. But for now, he wanted them to see her at her best.

Eurus had taken a big step leaving her bed to play, and his words seemed to help her. She needed his stability more than anything else at the moment; she needed his presence and reassurance so she didn't crumble under the pressure.

Sherlock smiled as he noted her acknowledgment of his advice and began to play in earnest. Eurus quickly joined in.

Time passed on stealthy tiptoes as brother and sister played. Eurus relaxed fractionally over several songs until she was almost as calm as she usually was when it was just Sherlock there. Sherlock kept his eyes focused on her, unable to keep a smile off his face, his gaze filled with warmth and pride. A slow smile grew on hers as well, it lit up her face.

The music spiraled around the cell, echoing off every wall and filling the listeners with a sensation almost like peace.

Mrs. Holmes felt her anger flow out of her, replaced by teary wonder at such beauty. She had witnessed her son pull his sister from a dark place and into the light, and even though it had been nothing more than him playing the violin and her finally responding, she felt that something monumental had occurred, however unseen. Her bosom filled with warmth and love for her children.

Mr. Holmes found his vision suddenly blurry, his throat choked with emotion. The music spoke to him in a way none other had. He was witnessing something that transcended all their hardship and trials. It didn't make them suddenly disappear, but it did make them hurt less. No matter what, she was their daughter. And she was beautiful.

Mycroft didn't know what he'd expected coming here today. Part of him, however unwilling, had been hoping against hope he might find something in Eurus to lay his fears to rest about Sherlock's visits. Part of him had been willing to attend so that he could prove to his parents he hadn't been so wrong in keeping Eurus a secret.

But what he found was…his family. Watching Eurus and Sherlock play was like watching the old videos of their family at the beach. It was like remembering how they once had been. Except it was now, it was right here in front of him. He couldn't help being moved by it. His brother, his sister, his parents. Like he'd always tried to make their family as a child. He'd only ever wanted to help. To be a good brother. A good son. But he still felt removed from them all.

He didn't realize his hand was tense on his leg, fingers curling every few seconds and forced to relax again. But Mrs. Holmes did. In a flash, Mycroft was eight, ten, and eleven again. Doing the same motion as an indication of his stress. Trying to help. Trying to keep the family happy. Juggling far more responsibility than he should ever have to shoulder alone. Over and over they had tried to tell him it wasn't his burden. But he always made it his. Because he cared so much.

Her son… Mrs. Holmes reached over and laid her hand on Mycroft's. She broke through the invisible barrier like it was nothing, made contact and closed her eyes, relishing the moment. Mycroft looked askance at his mother, through the gaps of restraint and emotional blockades, and smiled.

And he didn't remove his hand from hers.

* * *

When the music finally ended, no one spoke a word. Sherlock packed his violin, and Eurus finally looked to his left and made eye contact with her parents. It was jarring to see each other, aged by many years, and still see the same person they once knew.

Mrs. Holmes stayed true to Sherlock's request and said nothing. She just used the opportunity to soak up as much of Eurus as she could. She did her best to convey nonverbally her love and care for her child. Mr. Holmes simply looked at her, proud and smiling.

Eurus looked at them and away several times, trying to evaluate their body language before she finally relaxed and looked at them full on. Her eyes were wide, she looked like a fawn ready to bolt, but she stayed motionless. Her parents smiled at her, overflowing with emotion.

Sherlock broke the moment with a hand on his mother's shoulder and a motion that it was time to go. He gave Eurus a broad smile, having already assured her he would be back as usual. He escorted his parents out of the cell. Mycroft trailed the group and offered Eurus a small smile of reconciliation. Eurus looked away and didn't respond, but she didn't refuse the gesture either. It was enough for now.

The wordless nature of their session followed them out of the cell and down the hallway, all the way back up to the main floor. Each person was deep in thought. Finally, they exited to the helipad and waited for the helicopter to land.

Mrs. Holmes wandered away, looking out over the water. Her husband followed her. He put a hand on her shoulder. She clung to it as they were buffeted by the wind. Mycroft moved to stand next to Sherlock and they stood in companionable silence for a while, both watching their parents. Eventually, Mycroft spoke.

"Do you think she really meant for me or John to die when she made you choose?"

Sherlock considered it. "It's hard to say. But I don't think it was the result she was looking for."

"Oh? What was she trying to achieve?" For the first time, Mycroft sounded genuinely curious instead of doubtful.

"In making me decide between my brother and my best friend she was attempting to see which I would choose. If I would side with family no matter how flawed." Mycroft's mouth twitched. Sherlock continued. "But I'm reasonably sure she got what she wanted. The following events at Musgrave Hall confirm it."

"They do?"

"Yes. Eurus tried to make me choose between family and friend, and I couldn't."

There was a moment of silence. "You couldn't." Mycroft's tone was one of complete understanding.

Sherlock nodded. "Neither was something I was willing to sacrifice. I think that was what she wanted." Sherlock finally turned his head to look at his brother, acknowledging that both his brother and his sister were someone he was unwilling to turn away from. Not then. Not now.

Mycroft nodded his understanding and wondered how many years he had turned his back on his sister. His parents. However, there was no time like the present to begin reparations. He noted the pilot was ready to go and waved to their parents, ready to assist them into the helicopter.

* * *

Molly hurried down the street, brimming with excitement. Sherlock had texted her at work and told her the visit went well and she was dying to hear details. In a fit of excitement and happiness, she had changed after work and was wearing a simple colorful dress with a necklace and earrings. She fully admitted to herself she was hoping Sherlock would be impressed. She felt light and happy and full of hope after the last few days. Her overnight bag bumped on her back as she juggled the bag of takeout.

She was in such a rush that she bumped into two men walking side by side down Baker Street. She quickly apologized, giving them both a smile and hurried up the steps to unlock the door.

"Molly!" John was exiting a cab that had just pulled up, holding Rosie.

"John, hi! Hello Rosie, sweetheart! How is the search for a nanny going?" Molly unlocked the door and let them both in.

"Well, I have a few contenders lined up. I need to check with Sherlock and see when he can be there for the second interviews." They climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Molly was giggling at the thought. "You know he's going to deduce each one, right?"

John sighed. "I know…"

They entered the flat and each put down their respective bags. John sat on his chair, bouncing his daughter on his knee. Molly was secretly glad she had bought extra food and got out three plates instead of two. It was good Sherlock was so busy he hadn't been spending as much time doing experiments, so there was room on the table for them to eat. She was unloading the food when a small noise behind her made her start. Arms wrapped around her from behind, and a quiet voice was suddenly in her ear.

"Molly Hooper, you saved my life today." Sherlock had slipped in through the door that led to the hallway and was currently involved in holding her as close as possible. Molly shook her head with a smile.

"'Saved your life?' Don't you think that's a bit over the top?" She turned around to see Sherlock pondering her question, his hands on her hips now. He shook his head briefly.

"No, if anything, it's under-dramatic. You save my life every day."

"Sherlock, you're such a softie deep down," Molly was grinning at him.

"Just don't tell anyone. To everyone else, I'm an arse with a flair for the dramatic." He leaned closer, looking at her lips.

"Yes. Definitely that too." She let him kiss her and then tilted her head to the living room. "John is here."

"I noticed." He raised his voice somewhat but didn't move. "Good evening, John."

In the face of quiet intimate whispering and obvious romantic overtones, John was resolutely keeping his back to them and occupying himself with Rosie. So much for not being indecent… "Evening, Sherlock. Want me to leave you two alone?"

Sherlock straightened up and stepped away from Molly. "Of course not. Join us for dinner, won't you?" Sherlock had noted the number of plates Molly had pulled out and fell into step with her plans. Molly beamed and began unloading food in earnest.

John shook his head but gladly accepted the invitation. It was lonelier without Mary, and dinner with friends was just what he needed.

They sat at the kitchen table and ate, each taking it in turn to hold Rosie. The conversation was easy and moved from Eurus to nanny candidates to any news in their open cases.

John was chewing and mulling over the latest case of the dead actor when he remembered Sherlock had spoken to David Higgins again after that.

"Sherlock, what did you ask the ventriloquist the last time Greg brought him around? I was upstairs with Rosie."

Sherlock put his fork down. "I asked him if he knew Grant Perkins, and he confirmed that he did."

Both Molly and John stared at him. John managed to speak first.

"What—they knew each other? How?"

"Ex-roommates, still friends, Grant moved out when he moved in with his girlfriend. Grant used to perform at Portabello Road with David for extra money."

"So their cases are connected." Molly's voice was low.

"Yes, they are. David told me he had told Grant about being attacked, and how he came to see me after. When Grant was also attacked, he must have remembered and come for help."

There was a moment of silence around the table as all remembered how that had ended. John's brows were drawn together in concentration. "So how long ago was Grant at Portabello Road?"

"Not sure. But since he knew it well, it's possible he went there to indulge in some shopping. David said he had mentioned buying his girlfriend a gift, but he wasn't sure where from. Perhaps he used a card and that was how they tracked him. I asked Greg to visit the girlfriend and ask her about it."

Sherlock's eyes wandered to Molly, and he smiled at how pretty she looked today. Molly read his look and beamed.

Sherlock's gaze drifted to her neck as he pondered, and his eyes lit on her necklace. It was familiar. It was the one she had purchased on their shopping day together. Handmade, cloisonné flowers… He frowned slightly, looking at it again. The biggest flower was still wrong and it still bothered him. It should have a yellow center, not black and it was still almost too big…

Sherlock shot to his feet, rattling the table and its contents and tipping over his chair. John recoiled, automatically clutching Rosie closer to his body. Molly started but didn't move. Sherlock was staring at nothing, seeing things that no one else could, his hands in the air in front of him fitting invisible pieces together. Both Molly and John recognized the look and waited.

After several seconds, Sherlock pulled his phone out and sent a text to Greg. John started to lose patience. "Sherlock, what?"

"I told Greg to ask the girlfriend specifically about a certain item. But at this point, I don't think I need the answer." Sherlock began to slowly prowl around the table, heading for Molly. "He bought his girlfriend a present. A piece of jewelry I'll bet. Remember how the trays were disturbed? They were looking for a necklace."

He approached Molly and crouched down in front of her. "Molly," he extended an index finger toward her. "Do you recall that vendor someone had a problem with that day? It wasn't the one upset about the pipe."

Molly had stopped breathing and was staring at him. John was doing the same across the table. Even Rosie was quiet and watchful.

Sherlock pointed at her necklace. "Someone messed up that flower."

The room was still as Sherlock pressed his finger to the center of the daisy and carefully turned it so that it now held the black center he had just dislodged. Underneath the daisy center was yellow, its proper proportions restored. Molly gasped.

Sherlock pulled his finger back to inspect this new item. "They're hiding information. It's a microdot."

* * *

 _ **Dun dun dun!**_

 _ **Ok you have probably noticed that this chapter contains the "last" scene in the montage at the end of TFP. But actually, there is one more tiny one, and of course now I get to tie everything up and I enjoy doing that.**_

 _ **Couple more chapters to go! :)  
**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Ok. Well. As usual, I have misjudged the amount of things I can cram into a chapter, lol. So you get two! And really, it's better this way. Cliffhangers suck. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and support!  
**_

 _ **Since I am trying to keep things mostly in line with the actual show, this is going to be some wild times! But don't worry, my goal is always to further the emotional beats. Wahahaha….. Ok. I'm just gonna leave these here… *Runs away…***_

 **Chapter 13**

"Molly, did you pay for the necklace with card or cash?" Sherlock's voice was low and serious. Molly swallowed.

"Cash. I always take cash when I shop the vendors."

Molly hadn't realized just how tense Sherlock actually was until he released his pent-up breath. His shoulders lowered by inches as his body went limp.

"Good. Good. They can't find you then." Sherlock gave her tight smile and glanced across the table at John, who also looked relieved. Sherlock stood from his crouched position in front of Molly and studied the microdot still on his finger. "Time to discover what secrets this holds."

Dinner completely forgotten, Sherlock replaced his microscope on the table, absently pushing his plate aside. John, still with Rosie in one arm, took a large bite of his own food and took his plate to the sink. He then began pulling open drawers as he hunted for pen and paper.

"Try my desk." Sherlock had already placed the microdot on the slide and was peering through the eyepieces.

Molly, sensing that both John and Sherlock were going to be distracted for the rest of the night, offered to take Rosie and allow John the use of both hands. John smiled and murmured a few words of thanks before he settled at the table again, now ready to take down anything Sherlock discovered.

"Ohhhh," Sherlock breathed. "It's chemistry formulas. Interesting. Take this down." He began rapidly listing symbols and formulas as John tried to keep up.

Molly smiled at Rosie, who was already looking tired and ready to go down for the night. "John, has Rosie eaten?"

"Yes, I fed her before we came over." John didn't look up from his notepad. Molly nodded in satisfaction and fetched the diaper bag from John's chair. She sat on the couch and changed Rosie, then dressed her in some comfortable pajamas John had packed. She walked the halls slowly, allowing Rosie to rest on her shoulder and become drowsier before she finally took her up to John's old room. Once Rosie was asleep Molly made her way downstairs, turned on the baby monitor, and settled on her yellow chair with one of her new books. Sherlock was busy figuring out what the formulas were and why they would be worth killing for. Molly left him to it. It wasn't that she didn't care; just that she knew perfectly well he was in his element and in so deep she wouldn't see him for a bit. And that was fine, she was happy to read and listen to the conversation in the kitchen with one ear.

Every so often Sherlock would make an exclamation that indicated he had connected another dot and thus solved one more bit of the puzzle. John was adding his own questions or interjections. A call to Greg was made. Molly's book became more interesting and she lost track of their progress.

As the night wore on Molly realized she was tired and ready for bed. Sherlock was clearly on a roll, not ready to stop anytime soon, and even though John was occasionally dozing at the table he showed no indication of leaving.

Molly put her book aside and rose, stretching tight legs and stifling a yawn. She made her way into the kitchen and stopped in surprise. Though it really shouldn't have been a surprise. It really shouldn't have been.

Left to their own devices and without thought to their location, John and Sherlock had set up a board of sorts to keep track of the information they had mined from the microdot and their continuing research of it. Papers had been scribbled on and taped to the tiled wall on the left side of the kitchen, the only space even partially available. They stretched from the hutch in the corner to the door. Except they didn't stop there. The door leading to the hallway was papered from top to bottom, and Molly wondered if Sherlock had even considered the idea that someone might open it. There were clusters of chemical symbols and a few outliers, names or other pieces of information that didn't figure in yet or at all. Sherlock was standing on the opposite side of the kitchen, backed up as far as he could go against the counter. His face had the look of deep concentration Molly had seen many times before. She found it endearing in a way, it was just so him. John was currently occupied in a nap and had his chin in one hand, his eyes closed. He would probably jolt awake in a minute or two.

Lips twitching in a smile, Molly slowly approached Sherlock and stood next to him, taking in the wall as well. She recognized some of the symbols and notes scribbled here and there, but it was clear the arrangement was Sherlock's own system and it only made sense to him. Molly abandoned any attempt to make sense of it and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady herself as she rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He showed no sign of noticing her at all; he was so intent on the opposite wall.

"Good night, Sherlock."

Molly hadn't expected him to answer and was prepared to leave him there and head to bed, but in the last second before she moved away Sherlock seemed to pull himself from the depths of puzzle solving and turned his head to look at her. He looked slightly disoriented, and a bit uneasy.

"What time is it?"

"Bedtime for me. You don't have to stop if you're not ready."

Sherlock's gaze began to stray from her to the wall. He pulled it back but it was enough for her to know he was not at any kind of resting place in his thought process. She kissed him lightly, a kiss he returned even if he didn't move. She turned to go out the long way since the kitchen door was occupied. Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"You're not angry?"

"Why would I be angry?" She turned to face him and tilted her head, a smile emerging at the befuddled look on his face.

"I became a bit preoccupied." That was an amazing understatement, so he tried again. "I feel I've ignored you."

Molly couldn't help nodding in agreement. "Yes, but it's not like I didn't know what you were like long ago. It's not a surprise. You're working a case, after all. And I can occupy myself just fine. I've been doing it for years." Sherlock looked deep in thought and didn't reply. Molly shook her head at him. "What, did you think I'd be the usual sort of girlfriend and demand all your time?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, asleep at the table, and back. "There's nothing usual about you, Molly Hooper. I've just never been torn between desire to spend time with both a person and a case before. It was always easy to choose the case."

John grunted, half awake. "Thanks, I feel special…" Without opening his eyes, he repositioned his chin on his other hand and went back to sleep. Molly and Sherlock grinned at each other across the kitchen, each perfectly aware that a case typically meant time spent with John as well.

Molly blew him a kiss. "Plenty of time for us after you solve this one. Don't stay up too late." She headed down the hallway to Sherlock's room and gently closed the door.

Sherlock spent a moment reining in the urge to follow her and finally focused back on the wall. He started working the problem and allowed the case to pull him in again, but not without noticing the relief that Molly didn't feel ignored. That definitely made it simpler.

Eventually, John woke up enough to realize that Sherlock was done with the preliminary set up and didn't need his help. He hauled himself off his chair and dragged toward his upstairs room, complete with inviting bed and Rosie in her cot.

Sherlock stared at the clues well into the night.

* * *

When Molly woke, she was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock in bed next to her, arms wrapped around her in sleep. The fact that his clothes from the night before were still on told her he had stayed awake to the dropping point and just fallen into bed, but she was still glad he'd allowed himself some kind of rest.

Molly stayed still so she wouldn't wake him and listened for sounds of anyone else stirring in the flat. Nothing yet. She snuggled in next to Sherlock and went back to sleep.

An hour later John and Rosie came down the stairs. Still motionless but with her eyes open now, Molly could hear John making coffee and soon the soft tones of Mrs. Hudson could be heard. Apparently, she was an angel and kept a supply of baby food on hand for Rosie. Molly made a mental note to do the same for occasions like last night. And maybe some other baby items…

The change in Sherlock's breathing pattern alerted her that he was awake. It always amazed her how he went from asleep to wide awake in seconds, unlike her slow progression. She looked at him and found him already gazing at her.

"Glad you decided to join me," Molly laughed softly.

Sherlock smiled. "I would have to conduct an experiment of course, but I have a theory that sleep with you is far more restful than without. So whatever sleep I managed to get amounts to double."

"Uh huh…I'm going to need proof in the form of measurable results before I believe that."

Sherlock gave a sad sigh. "Well, I regret to say you may never get them. Sleeping without you sounds terrible so I highly doubt I'd ever be able to. You'll have to take my word for it."

Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes. "You're such a fast talker, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed as he bounced out of bed. "John is up and we have work to do. If Mrs. Hudson can't do it do you think you could watch Rosie? John doesn't have a nanny yet." He was already stripping off his clothes from the day before and picking out new ones. Molly watched appreciatively.

"I'm off today so I might do, but only if you tell me what you have so far."

"That's fair." Sherlock slid into new trousers and looked around for the shirt he'd laid nearby. "The microdot contains chemical formulas and data that looks to be related to the botulinum toxin Grant Perkins was injected with. Someone outside the country is working with someone in this country to perfect a highly concentrated and deadly version of it. This is just one of many messages that must have gone back and forth, and as far as I can tell they have a nice little poison in liquid form but are working to weaponize it as an aerosol. This latest microdot transfer has the formulas that could just manage it."

"Wow…" Molly unconsciously touched her neck, overwhelmed with the realization she'd unknowingly been wearing such information around her neck.

Sherlock finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in, then started threading his belt through the belt loops. "Indeed. Since the information contains possible ways to weaponize the toxin and was most likely smuggled in as microdot on the necklace from outside the country, it's safe to assume that someone here had the brilliant idea and is working with someone else to develop it. The necklace came through customs from China if Greg's intel is correct. I'd wager someone has access to bees and beehives and has been working to exploit the small amount of botulinum found in honey to a full blown gas attack weapon. They needed someone with the right knowledge and skill set to make it happen."

"Why wouldn't they just look around England and find someone here to do it? We have smart scientists and chemists."

"Yes, we do. But if this person wants to eventually use it as a weapon in their homeland, it's far safer to employ help out of the country and avoid any sticky patriotism that might get him reported and caught. Someone far away in another country won't care nearly as much since it doesn't affect them directly. Our man found the appropriate party willing to do the job in China. And thus, a partnership was created."

Molly was sitting up in bed with her legs crossed, arms around her knees. She was enthralled. Sherlock buttoned his cuffs and adjusted his collar, then sat on the bed. "As for the microdot, as far as I can tell it's a fragment of what must be the actual formula used to weaponize the toxin, hence the chemical formulas, but not enough to be useful. There was a small coded message at the end stating that the price agreed on is not enough. So it's likely the party working somewhere in China is close to perfecting it and is now angling for a better profit. They don't seem particularly fond of our Englishman, the tone is quite disrespectful and they even go far enough to call him a derogatory pet name. 'Monty'. So now John and I need to find this Monty and I believe we'll have another case solved."

"There must be dozens of Montys, though. Montgomery, Montague…" Molly mulled over the challenge.

Sherlock kissed her forehead. "Leave that to me. Have a good day with Rosie." Molly smiled after him as he pulled the door open and surged through it, bellowing for John.

* * *

While John and Sherlock continued to use the kitchen as their command center, Molly slipped in and out for breakfast and coffee, then spent much of the day relaxing with Rosie and Mrs. Hudson. She and Rosie went downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson's flat for lunch and a comfortable afternoon complete with chatting, tea and enjoying Rosie. Molly got a firsthand opportunity to note that the sound really didn't carry through the floors very much. Every once in a while the floor would squeak at a particular point when trodden on, and here and there Sherlock's raised voice could be discerned. He had very healthy lungs. It made for a nice atmosphere, allowing the boys to work while she and her fellow godmother caught up with each other.

It was late in the afternoon when Rosie went down for her second nap. Molly was descending the stairs with the baby monitor in hand when Sherlock and John erupted from the flat to descend as well.

"Off to find Monty?" Molly smiled at Sherlock, who grinned back as they moved to the ground floor.

"Indeed. Took some work, but only three men in this city have the right background, name, and education to fit the facts. Greg is outside." Sherlock's eyes were gleaming with zeal.

Molly shook her head fondly.

"Well have a good time. I expect a full report when you get back." Molly paused in the foyer, ready to return to Mrs. Hudson's. John had one hand on the front door ready to open it but turned back to wait for Sherlock as the latter gave Molly a kiss.

"Don't worry, I'll give you every detail." His eyes smiled into hers before he turned to grab his coat from the hook and join John.

"Bye." Molly waved them through the door and went back to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Greg was already waiting outside, a small frown on his face as he stood next to his car and gazed down the street. It cleared the moment John and Sherlock emerged and he opened his door to get back in. Sherlock promptly claimed the front passenger seat and John was left to roll his eyes and get in the back. They entered traffic and headed to the first destination on Sherlock's list.

Molly put Rosie's diaper bag back together and realized there was exactly one left for the rest of the day. That wouldn't do. She checked her watch. The shops should still be open and Mrs. Hudson could watch Rosie, who would probably sleep for another hour or so.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out to get more diapers I'll be right back."

Mrs. Hudson's head popped around the corner from the kitchen. "Sounds lovely dear, I have the monitor." She held it up in one yellow rubber-gloved hand.

"Won't be a moment." Molly checked her pocket to make sure she had some cash, and then let herself out.

The cool air brushed her face as she opened the front door and exited, making sure it was locked behind her. Traffic was light for the moment, though it would increase in a bit for the usual rush hour. Molly put her hands in her pockets and strode toward the corner. She wondered if Sherlock had made any progress on his case yet.

The sound of an engine accelerating behind her caught her ears, but she was just distracted enough that it didn't warn her. But even if it had, it may not have made a difference. The van door was wide open by the time it pulled to a rolling stop next to her, and there were already two men rushing up behind her. In seconds they had caught her arms and thrown her into the van, then climbed in after her. Her cry of alarm was interrupted by a meaty fist clamped over her mouth. The door was closing even as the driver accelerated. The last thing Molly saw was the door to 221 Baker Street flash past. Then she was trapped inside with her kidnappers.

The van turned the corner and vanished into traffic.

* * *

Once they were on their way, Greg filled in Sherlock and John on details he had found. "By the way, we talked to Grant Perkin's girlfriend. Seems her flat was robbed a few days ago. Lucky for her she wasn't home. Not much taken, a laptop and some jewelry. Including the necklace Grant gave her as a present a few weeks ago."

Sherlock nodded, unsurprised. "Good thing she wasn't home. This kind of criminal has already proved they're willing to kill to cover their tracks."

"Exactly. So why am I driving? You don't usually let me play in your sandbox." Greg was grinning as he drove, always happy to find an occasion to wind up Sherlock.

Sherlock's demeanor was cool and set. "I want a police presence here. It will allow us access I can't get alone and reduce the possibility of being thrown out by security. And I didn't want to pay for a cab." Sherlock smiled smugly out the window. John muffled a laugh in the back.

Greg snorted. "Right. Who are we going to see?"

"Altamont Bork. Pharmaceuticals man, graduate chemist. Born in Ireland. At one time he was studying to be a medical doctor and then changed to chemistry and business. Now he's the head of a pharmaceuticals lab on the outskirts of London. He's the most likely suspect on my list. Everything fits."

Greg was nodding, serious. "Right. So we're giving him a proper police visit then?"

"Yes. You ask the basic clueless police questions and I'll survey his office for anything that might help us. Follow my lead."

"So what am I, then?" John had been listening in the backseat. Sherlock turned to give him a smile.

"You're the bumbler who asks to borrow the loo while we're there and checks around for a microdot camera."

John nodded. Figured. "All right then. As long as I get to do something."

Greg parked in front of Rathbone Place, a new development in Rathbone Square that boasted office and retail units and residential apartments further inside. It was an eclectic mix of old and new, the façade and outer structures preserved to maintain the older architectural influences and the inner buildings more contemporary and sleek. Sherlock took little notice as they entered a classic white stone building and approached an office bearing the name Herling Pharmaceuticals, with Altamont Bork-Chief Chemist underneath in letters just as large.

The receptionist asked them to wait while she called Mr. Bork to see if he was busy. Sherlock's eyes flicked over the area, taking it all in. There were no personal effects of any kind at the receptionist's desk, leading him to deduce that she was part time and this office area was more for courting potential investors and clients. The real business was conducted elsewhere. The decorations were standard and classy, lending a generic feel to the room. Greg was asking the receptionist questions, while John stood next to Sherlock awaiting a verdict.

"Barely used office, only for courting clients, but I'm willing to bet Mr. Bork is here far more often conducting his own business on the side. Keep your eyes open."

"Got it," John breathed as the office door opened and their target strode toward them.

Altamont Bork was a tall man in his early forties with a thin build, brown curls, and an insincere smile. He greeted Greg and his DI badge with a barely detectable waver in his gaze and barely noticed Sherlock and John, who Greg introduced as his "associates". Altamont invited them to his office behind the waiting area. As they went, Sherlock heard him tell the receptionist it was close enough to closing time that she could go home. She sounded delighted to leave.

As suspected, his office was filled with papers and files and memorabilia that indicated Mr. Bork used this office as his full-time nerve center more than the lab outside London, even though he was actually the head of it. Sherlock surveyed the space, looking for anything that indicated where he might be storing his newly developed poison or correspondence with a Chinese partner. The decided oriental flair to Altamont's decorating made Sherlock more than sure he had the right man. That, and the picture of him on the Great Wall. This man had spent time in China at some point.

Altamont seated himself at his desk and laced his fingers together. "So, what can I do to help you, DI Lestrade?"

"We're looking for anyone who might have information on a murdered vendor at Portobello Road a few weeks ago." Greg offered the bare minimum of information, hoping the suspect might fill in some empty gaps.

Altamont's eyes widened in feigned horror. "Well, that's just terrible. I visit Portobello Road every week. I like to frequent the shops, support the vendors, you know."

"I see. Did you ever notice anything suspicious at all in any visit? People that shouldn't be there, vendors acting odd?" Greg wasn't sure what Sherlock was going for, considering they couldn't very well admit they had found Altamont through the microdot without admitting they had it. He lined up a list of dim police questions in his head, ready to play for time.

Altamont's gaze had wandered to Sherlock, who was standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he scanned Altamont and his desk. Altamont's brows pulled together for a moment before he looked back at Greg. "No, nothing I can think of. I don't pay much attention to anything but the goods."

"Indeed, I noticed your receptionist was wearing a lovely brooch with cloisonné flowers. My girlfriend would approve." Sherlock gazed squarely at Altamont. "A gift?"

Altamont's composure cracked for just a second. "Yes. Well, she does a good job and as I said I like to frequent the shops." Altamont stared right back at Sherlock, almost daring him to accuse him. Sherlock could tell he wasn't going to give in easily. John shifted slightly and wondered if it was time to ask about the loo.

Greg opened his mouth to ask another question, but Sherlock interrupted him. He moved past Greg and approached the left side of Altamont's desk to peer at a picture on the wall behind him. "May I, Monty, is it?" He pointed at the picture.

The other man's face froze for an instant before he recovered. "It's Altamont. And yeah, of course."

Altamont shifted his chair back so Sherlock could move closer. Sherlock scanned the picture and gave Altamont his own insincere smile. "Lovely girl." The picture showed a much younger Altamont, arm around a young woman as they smiled in front of a rural home. "Your wife?"

"Girlfriend. She died before I could marry her." Altamont looked away.

"That's too bad, sorry for your loss." Sherlock's phone pinged in his pocket. He pulled it out of his coat. "Sorry, one moment."

Altamont's phone pinged almost immediately after. He gave a fake chuckle. "No problem. Let me get this."

Both men had lifted their phones, but Sherlock's came up a fraction sooner. He kept his head down to avoid detection of what he really was doing: Checking to see what message Altamont had received. Altamont's phone wasn't angled well enough for Sherlock to see it, but he easily picked out the letters the suspect pushed to send a reply. They rose up and formed in front of him, recreating the text message.

 **Good. Handle it. Not to be found.**

Sherlock caught the telltale swipe and tap motions that deleted the text conversation from the man's phone. Only then did he look down at the message on his own. It was Mrs. Hudson.

 **Have you seen Molly? She left to get diapers and hasn't come back.**

 _Molly…_ His vision tunneled down to the single connection he instantly made. Distantly he could hear Greg talking, but it was just babbling noise. He could feel himself spinning, reeling out of control. He was sick, he was gutted, he was devastated. Because he'd missed it. He had assumed they could never find her, a single patron in a city of them who bought a necklace with cash. And now they had her.

Dimly he was aware that Altamont had placed his phone face down on his desk and looked up at them with his fake smile that now had a tinge of smug victory in it. Greg was still talking. Altamont answered, fully aware that continued denial would leave them with nothing if they had no proof of a connection. He was going to ride this out to the bitter end. John had said his name. Twice. Three times, now. The other two were beginning to look at him, aware that something wasn't quite right. He needed to reply, to act normal. But how could he do that when he suddenly had a gaping hole in his chest?

Greg gave a nervous smile to Altamont, intended to put him at ease. "Well, I guess we're about done here. Sherlock, did you have any other questions before we go?"

Sherlock's head snapped up as he finally pocketed his phone. John was already tense, looking between the two of them, trying to decide what had changed. Greg was concerned but trying to keep things normal. Altamont was rising from his chair, hand extended to bid him farewell. He was looking at him, mocking him behind an insincere smile, safe and smug.

"Yes, I have one last question." Sherlock's calm tone belied the turmoil beneath.

Then he raised his fist and punched Altamont Bork full in the face.

The momentum spun Altamont back into his chair, lying on his side half draped onto the floor. Amid surprised exclamations and yelling, Sherlock gripped the man's lapels and hauled him up enough to slam him back into a sitting position. He leaned forward, one hand gripping the man's throat, and pinned him in place with a stare that promised pain and vengeance. Teeth bared, he asked his final question.

"Where is Molly Hooper?"

John and Greg answered at the same time.

"What?"

"My God, Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Altamont's face was scarlet as he choked for breath in Sherlock's ever-tightening hold. Sherlock had no such problems. "He got a text and deleted it. 'Good. Handle it. Not to be found.' Mrs. Hudson just texted that Molly went out for diapers and never returned." His eyes hadn't left Altamont's. He could read the recognition in them.

"But that doesn't mean—" Greg started.

"Of course it does! She wore it yesterday, out in plain view on the street. They must have been watching my flat." Sherlock's fingers tightened spasmodically on Altamont's throat. He had to use every amount of willpower he had to relax his hold enough to keep the man conscious.

John's face was white. "Oh, God, they saw it. I got out of a cab just then and went in with her. They couldn't get her then. Couldn't get it."

"But they knew who had it now. How did they know to watch my flat? How did they find her?"

Silence. Both Greg and John were unable to provide an answer, and Altamont set his jaw and refused to.

Sherlock's eyes bored into Altamont's. And it hit him. "Grant Perkins. You tracked him down, you were sure he was the one who had it so you went yourself. You and your goons threatened him, questioned him, and when he told you he gave it to his girlfriend you couldn't have any witnesses so you went ahead and injected him. And then you had him followed as he ran away. Just in case he was lying. And he ran to my flat. And his girlfriend's necklace wasn't the right one. And you've been watching us ever since." Sherlock unfastened the watch Altamont was wearing and held it up. "Check the inside of the clasp, you'll find Grant Perkins' blood." He tossed it to John, who carefully looked and confirmed it.

Greg took the watch and pocketed it as evidence. He approached the desk. "Where is she? Tell us and we'll go easy on you." Altamont looked away.

John joined in. "Call them. Call off your guys. Call them right now!" He approached them, his hands curling into fists. "Call them!"

Altamont's eyes were still smug, in spite of the fingers clenched around his throat. Sherlock could see that he would refuse to answer before he uttered a word. Admitting to nothing made everything circumstantial. Calling meant admitting his guilt. He would let a woman die to avoid admitting even one thing. Sherlock's grip tightened again before he relaxed his fingers a fraction more so the man could speak.

"I have no…idea…what you're on about…" Altamont's voice was raspy and hoarse.

Sherlock's eyes went deadly. "You think I can't make you tell us?"

"Sherlock…" John stepped forward; very worried that Altamont Bork was beginning to look coffin-shaped in Sherlock's eyes.

Greg was louder. "God, Sherlock, I'm a police officer I can't be seeing this! We can't torture him for her location! Let me take him in, we'll get him to talk."

"No, it'll be too late by then, if it isn't already." Sherlock finally released Altamont's throat and stood up straight. The man didn't dare move. Sherlock breathed through gritted teeth. "But don't think I can't get the answer from you right here, right now." Sherlock looked beyond Altamont at the myriad of framed pictures and personal items around the room. "I'll find out where she is."

"Okay, but Sherlock, only things that are out in plain sight. We don't have a search warrant; we can't go through his desk or anywhere concealed. We can't search his phone."

John's protest was immediate. "A woman's life is in danger! Who cares about the letter of the law?"

"I do." Greg's voice was deep and full of conviction as he pulled his gun and pointed it at the man in the chair, making sure Altamont wouldn't attempt an escape. "Because that way when this is over they can't throw out any of the evidence found in this case. I want him convicted." Greg's eyes found Sherlock, and Sherlock realized Greg was telling him that he had faith in him to find what they needed despite the restrictions on his search. And it would ensure Altamont felt the full weight of the law after. Sherlock gave a short nod of silent agreement. Greg nodded in return. John became tenser, willing Sherlock to hurry up so they could take action.

Sherlock took one last look at Altamont, noting the look in the other man's eyes. He still felt safe, protected by his silence. They'd see about that. He took a deep breath and pushed all his emotions into a small corner of his mind palace. They couldn't help her now, they were so magnified they would only hinder. Only years of practice and experience made it possible at all. He stilled the tremor in his hands.

Then he looked Altamont up and down.

"You rarely see the sun; your skin is so light so you spend most of your time inside. But you like to stand somewhere, just barely inside a building, and look at something outdoors. The sun spots and tan lines on your hands and wrists indicate you stand with your hands together. There are no such markings on your face, so your usual time is somewhere around noon when the sun is at its zenith and unable to shine into your face. So that makes it your lunch hour. Your lunch hour typically occurs at Herling Pharmaceuticals at their lab just outside London. But you don't take your lunch there. You go somewhere just nearby."

Sherlock scanned the pictures on the walls, coming to a stop in front of the picture of Altamont with his girlfriend again. He had noted the beehive sign behind them on his first glance, but that wasn't the clue he needed at the moment. Sherlock glanced at Altamont's shoes, one showing the sole since his foot was laid down on its side. "Your shoes show traces of sand and there are larger pebbles stuck in the treads. Things you would easily pick up in an industrial trade, not so much in a chemistry lab. You're spending time in a disused warehouse. Is that where you hide away while you work on your highly concentrated poison? Or do you just stare at something that reminds you why you're doing it?"

The flicker in Altamont's eyes told Sherlock he was surprised Sherlock had gotten that far. But he was still too confident. So the warehouse wasn't connected to his name in any way. Altamont was sure it could never be connected to him. Sherlock glanced over his desk and noted a pile of receipts. He looked over the top one. "You're saving every penny you can, living on very little. Where did you get the money to pay hired muscle?" Sherlock scanned the room. "Ah. Your parents were reasonably well off, judging by their house in this photo and the schools they sent you to." Sherlock considered the framed graduation documents. "And there are no recent pictures of them; the last one has you in your mid-twenties. So you had a falling out or they are dead. I'm willing to bet they're dead and left you a moderate sum of money that you are now spending on big men dressed in black with guns. Why would you do that?" Sherlock's gaze drifted back to the picture of Altamont and his girlfriend. "Somehow, this has to do with her. She died, and it involved bees. And now you've spent years working to develop a poison related to bees. You'll sell it, spread your misery of losing a loved one to others and get one big payout. One big influx of income so you can live your life how you'd like after you sell it to the highest bidder. But until then, you're saving your receipts from lunch to write off on your expenses. Don't see how solitary lunch alone staring across the river can be a business meeting, but perhaps you can stretch the truth if you consider your little lunchtime detours as research and development." Sherlock gazed at the receipt and noted the address at the top, then the partial address showing on the one underneath. "Really should carefully stack your receipts, you're a gold mine of information, aren't you?"

Altamont's face was starting to look less certain. Sherlock would have taken greater pleasure in it if not for the circumstances. He needed to know where Molly was this second. He pulled his phone out again and put in both addresses, making a small educated guess on the second one. His fingers were trembling again; it felt like hours had passed even though he knew it to only be a few minutes. Where was she? John and Greg were both very distressed, waiting for something they could act on.

Sherlock locked emotions away again and searched the map he'd pulled up, locating Altamont's place of work and the two eateries located just nearby. "You leave on your lunch break. You cross the bridge here to the other side of the river. You buy a quick lunch…" The scene was beginning to form in his head, a partial picture still with blurred unclear areas. "Where do you go?" Sherlock's eyes locked with Altamont's, taking in the man's rapid breaths and tight set mouth. He was close. He looked at the map again. "You stare at your place of employment, don't you? You hate it. You're plotting the demonstration you'll perform once it's ready, an attack on your workplace where you'll kill all your coworkers…"

He had everything. Everything except where Molly might be. However tempted he was to beat it out of the man whatever Greg said, Sherlock could tell that taking a woman he loved away from him would bring Altamont great joy. This man's misery loved company.

Sherlock brought up a new page on his browser. Then he took a leap and looked for any industrial site in the same vicinity that was for sale. There was no possibility that Altamont could afford such a place. He didn't even pay for a soft drink at lunch. But he could borrow the place while no one was using it. The seconds ticked by as the browser brought up results, unbearably slow.

There was one warehouse for sale.

"Leven Wharf," Sherlock murmured as he looked up.

Altamont's eyes grew wide. Sherlock pounced. "That's it!"

Greg already had his cuffs and keys out. He threw his keys to John. "Take my car, I'll call for backup."

Both Sherlock and John dearly wanted to stay and pound Altamont but Molly was more important. They raced from the office.

Greg watched them go, then pulled Altamont out of his chair and slammed him across the desk, pulling his arms behind him to cuff him. "You better hope she's alive, Monty."

Altamont grimaced.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson ran out of Rathbone Place.

* * *

 _ **Don't panic! Keep reading!**_

 _ **-Next chapter up in a few minutes! :)  
**_

 _ **-Rathbone Place! Whee!**_

 _ **-Also, the names Altamont, Bork, and Herlong are all from Arthur Conan Doyle's His Last Bow. Altamont was a name Sherlock used as a spy, but I have turned it around here. If you look for them you'll see possibilities for Altamont to be similar to Sherlock but took a very wrong path. Also bees!** _


	14. Chapter 14

_**I'm not going to babble. Keep reading! :)** _

**Chapter 14**

Sherlock's legs were longer so he made it to the driver's side before John. John didn't protest, just tossed Sherlock the keys and clambered into the passenger set. By the time John had his door closed Sherlock had the key in the ignition and the car running. He gunned the engine and pulled into the street. John realized he'd better put on his seatbelt.

"Lights, John. Sirens." Sherlock only seemed capable of small sentences; he was so focused on the road and traffic. John fumbled around the dashboard until he located the proper buttons. The lights and sirens blared to life. Instantly the traffic attempted to divert and get out of his way, though the tight London streets didn't make it easy.

"Move! Move!" Sherlock yelled at offending cars as he tossed his phone across the car into John's lap. John instantly understood what he wanted and checked the address of the warehouse at Leven Wharf so he could give instructions. Sherlock knew the city well enough to get going in the proper direction but Leven Wharf was further on the outskirts of London and he would need guidance as they got closer. John didn't bother trying to use the car's more complicated GPS system, just looked it up on the phone.

Estimated time: 39 minutes.

"Oh, God Sherlock, it's seven miles away…"

"I know." Sherlock was weaving in and out of traffic, doing his best to look for pedestrians but refusing to slow down. It was the end of the day and rush hour was upon them. The sun was setting now and it would be dark soon. St. Paul's Cathedral flew past. Sherlock had a sudden thought.

"Call Mrs. Hudson. They know who bought the necklace but Molly wasn't wearing it. They might get brave and storm the flat."

"Oh, no." John dialed Mrs. Hudson. She answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock? Do you know where Molly is?"

"Mrs. Hudson, it's John. Get Sherlock's revolver and shoot anyone who comes in. There might be visitors. Keep yourself and Rosie safe."

Mrs. Hudson took that in stride since she was more worried about her first question. "What about Molly?"

John swallowed. He didn't know what to say, if Molly was even alive or not. "We're going after her now. I'll let you know."

Mrs. Hudson got the message loud and clear. Her voice was immediately low and angry. "You get her back. No one will harm Rosie."

"Thank you. Keep yourself safe." John hung up the phone.

"Faster, faster…" Sherlock muttered it as he bumped up onto a curb and back down. Stores and businesses were flying past. John checked the directions on his phone and started looking at street signs. Sherlock slid around a corner and fishtailed as he accelerated. The traffic was beginning to lighten up the farther they went, out of central London and into the outskirts.

Sherlock put the accelerator to the floor.

* * *

Molly's trip with her captors was incredibly silent, considering they wanted something from her.

The two men in the back had at least one gun on her at all times, and after they had zip-tied her hands and feet there wasn't much she could do. Big hands searched her pockets and felt her neck before they pulled a strip of fabric between her teeth and tied it behind her head.

"Nah, she doesn't have it."

"Well, she did yesterday. Lady, where's the necklace?" He gave her a shake. Molly didn't have to try real hard to make her eyes widen but exaggerated it and played incredibly stupid as she shook her head and shrugged as if she had no idea. Neither believed her but it was enough for them to begin a discussion that turned the focus away from her.

"Maybe her boyfriend figured it out."

"Nah. He has no clue. We just need to get it back and we're good." The speaker glanced at Molly as he spoke, and she kept her face averted to feign being scared senseless so he didn't realize Sherlock was chasing this case from the other end. How close was he? Had he found their boss?

"No one left the flat last night until this morning, and she doesn't have it on. If the boyfriend doesn't have a clue, it's in the flat. If he does, he has it and we'll get him next. We'll deal with her and figure it out."

"Right."

The conversation did nothing to reassure Molly. Neither did the two men facing her with guns aimed her way. They all stared at each other as her brain frantically tried to look for escape options.

Thankfully, her hands were tied in front of her which gave her a bit more mobility. Unfortunately, with two guns trained on her she didn't see much opportunity to use it. She could feel her heart pounding, her mouth dry with the gag in place. She had no idea when Sherlock would realize something was wrong.

The van moved through traffic, farther and farther away from Baker Street, and it made her nervous that the men seemed to have no issue with her being able to see them. They didn't seem fussed about a witness, and that always meant bad things.

Eventually, the van pulled onto a small street in the industrial part of London. Molly could see the river on one side as the van pulled up next to a warehouse. One of the men lifted open the overlarge garage door that led to the bay and the van pulled in. Molly tried to control her breathing and looked for an opportunity to present itself.

The driver and one of the men from the back climbed out and had a murmured discussion far enough away that Molly could only catch snatches of the conversation. One pulled out his phone and sent a text, and they both looked back her way when it appeared he'd received a reply.

"Not to be found. So she could have just run away then. Easy enough and it keeps the heat off us. What do we have around here?"

They set to work searching the warehouse, and Molly knew she was in grave danger. She worked at keeping her mind clear and her emotions suppressed. If she was going to be killed she'd do everything she could to prevent it or at least leave clues behind for Sherlock to follow. He'd make them pay.

The sound of the front bay door being pulled up reached her ears, and Molly quickly ran through the possibilities. That side had to lead to the river. Oh, God, she had never liked the drowned post mortems. And she certainly didn't want to be one. Her heart was hammering so hard it rang in her ears, and she tested the restraint on her bound hands hoping for some laxity. Nothing and all the motion got her was her guard moving closer to discourage it. He tugged on the zip tie binding her to make sure it was tight and settled back with his gun trained on her. Molly looked down and noted the small change and scraps of paper on the floor of the van, some from her own pocket when she was searched. They were mixed with random nuts and bolts from other jobs. Many victims of crimes had come in with fibers and small bits of evidence on their body or clothes, a few clenched in a hand. She knew too well that it could be crucial in solving a case.

The other two returned. One placed a cinder block on the floor next to the van, one of the classic gray concrete styles, hollow in the middle with a line down the center to make two holes. The other dropped a length of rope next to it. Molly bit down hard on her gag as her jaw clenched. She knew exactly what they planned to do. The block would ensure her body stayed in the river, never to be found or at the least not found for a very long time. Who knew if even Sherlock would find her?

At such a moment, Molly would have been fully justified in sobbing, crying, begging and descending into hysterics. In fact, it was her first inclination. But the second inclination overtook it and obliterated it.

Pure, unadulterated rage rushed from her toes to her head. She was angry. She was furious! She was about to die for a necklace? She spent years living a quiet life, so far under the radar even Moriarty never suspected she mattered, and now this? She and Sherlock had finally reached a good place together, finally happy and even considering the future, and now she didn't have one? Mary was gone and she wanted to be there for Rosie her whole life, not following Mary to the grave. Molly was livid. And she'd had enough.

When two of them reached in to pull her out she made it as hard as possible for them, flopping to her side and forcing them to drag her out. Her efforts were rewarded with the tinkling of pence and a few nuts and bolts bouncing off the floor, along with the rushing sound of papers being swept out and fluttering away. One of the men was grumbling at the fuss she was making. She ignored him.

They put her down on the ground and held her there as the third tied one end of the rope to her ankles and the other around one end of the cinder block. She struggled, but it was useless at the moment. She thought of the crucial elements she needed to increase her chances in the water and went still, saving her strength.

The trio decided it was best for two to pick up each end of her body and the third to bring the block. Once they had hoisted her up she pulled her feet in and shoved out with as much force as she could, at the same time shoving her head up against the chest of the one behind her. The thug at her feet, caught by surprise, lost hold of them and dropped her. As her weight slid down the only man still attempting to hold her, her gag started to slide up her head.

"Dammit, hold her!" one barked at the other, and they scrambled to get a better grip and lift her. Molly couldn't prevent it, so she let it happen. Once they had a good hold they started to walk toward the river again. They were a good twenty feet away. Molly threw every last bit of her weight into throwing herself backward and forward, making her captors shuffle in the loose gravel and sand that covered the floor.

"C'mon lady!" It was the grumbler again, acting as if she were the one in the wrong to inconvenience them so. Molly kicked extra hard and was rewarded when the grumbler lost his grip again and tripped into the third one holding the cinder block, causing him to drop it. The sound of it dropping to the floor mingled with oaths and swearing.

"All right." The one at her head pulled his gun and pointed it at her face. "I really don't care how this goes, but you'd be a lot less trouble dead, hon." Molly went still, fully aware that no plan was going to help her survive after a bullet to the face. She looked down at the cinder block and was gratified to see that her struggles and the impact of the floor had caused it to break in two.

The thug carrying the cinder block reached down to pick it up and realized it was broken. "Should we get a new one?"

"No, the rope is still tied to the right side. It'll do." He was right; the half with the rope attached was still tied to Molly's ankles. "Just get this over with." Molly was grateful she'd been enough of a nuisance to make them rush to get rid of her rather than take the time to do it right.

The leader thug showed her his gun once more. "No more trouble. Don't make this harder than it has to be." Molly lowered her head and tried to appear cowed. There was nothing else she could do at this point.

The leader holstered his gun, lifted her up and nodded to the other at her feet. The walk to the wharf took less than a minute. They stood next to the edge that boats would typically pull alongside for loading and unloading, peering into the water.

The river was deep, murky, swift flowing and very dangerous. The sky was soft purple, twilight was setting in and soon it would be too dark to see anything. Molly pushed her tongue against her gag and hoped it was loose enough.

"On three." They hoisted her and her cinder block higher, preparing to throw her in. "Sorry, hon."

 _Sod off!_ Molly thought viciously as she drew as deep a breath as she could around her gag, all the way down to her abdomen, and held it.

They counted to three and threw her as far as they could manage. The cinder block naturally followed.

Molly had expected the cold, but it still shocked every cell. In a small mercy, the impact of the water knocked off her gag. Her teeth were clenched around it tightly, holding in her last breath, so it descended too, fluttering in front of her.

Molly figured they would stay a few minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back up, and there was nothing she could do about the cinder block dragging her to the very bottom, so she let it. It took longer than she thought it would. The river was deeper than she had imagined. She held her breath, lungs beginning to ache, and descended until the block hit the bottom. She wasn't sure how much time had passed but she was beginning to feel the urge to breathe so it may even have been a full minute.

She bent over and lifted her ankles, fumbling until she found the rope attached to the block. Slowly, using her nails and any finger strength she was able to, she brought the block closer and managed to lift it up off the river bed. She flopped and jerked, and by now her lungs were screaming, her diaphragm starting to convulse, but she finally managed to get a good grip on the block, her bound hands stuck through the hole in the middle. She ignored the rough concrete stinging her wrists as she pushed off the bottom of the river and kicked for the surface, using the extra momentum. She was highly aware that too much time had passed and soon she'd either take a breath or pass out. The block weighed her down but not as much as a whole one would have. It took extra effort to rise but she managed it. It was bizarre that her bound feet, while presenting an extra challenge, actually gave her an edge in the water as it functioned like a mermaid tale. She just had to get the hang of it.

The water grew lighter and lighter, signaling the surface was close. When she finally broke through she gasped for air, filling her lungs, weakly kicking to stay afloat. Her gag, finally released, floated a short distance and sank as it became heavy with water. She looked quickly at the wharf and was relieved to see that the bay door was now shut. Her captors had decided she was taken care of and left.

Now she just needed to…what? Tread water? Swim? The current was already carrying her farther away from any point that would be useful to climb out, sweeping her into the middle of the river, and she was hampered by her bound hands and feet. There was no way she could actively swim.

She gasped for air and considered. She needed help. If any help were to come in time, it would be Sherlock. She hoped. If he was coming, he'd be looking here. Just outside the bay door. She couldn't afford to be swept downstream, further into choppy waters and possible dangers, and farther from where anyone could be looking for her. She almost sobbed as she realized what she needed to do. The big question was how much strength did she have left, and how long could she hold out?

She closed her eyes and accepted defeat. Then she took another huge gulp of air and put her hands down, letting the block slip off them and drag her to the bottom again.

And so it began. Molly lost track of time as she focused only on survival, allowing her body to rest as the block dragged her to the bottom, taking in sorely needed oxygen once she rose to the top again. Over and over she repeated the process. She could feel the extra drag in her body as it began to lose strength, burning up any energy she had in the effort. In time, as the ratios of air needed and air obtained grew more disparate, her mental faculties faded into simple repeated steps and nothing more. _Sink. Lift. Swim. Breathe. Sink. Lift. Swim. Breathe._ She kept going with no idea when or how it would end. She knew the current would still progress her down the river, but this at least slowed it down. She could also tell her ascents to the surface were taking longer and longer the weaker she became. She couldn't do this forever.

 _Sink. Lift. Swim. Breathe. Sink. Lift. Swim. Breathe._

Somewhere in the middle, maybe because she had thought of her in the van before all this began, or because she was someone she admired, Molly remembered Mary. A visit early in their friendship came back to her, floating in hazy underwater memories that shimmered in the light.

 _Molly had gone to visit with Mary shortly after Sherlock had been shot, left the hospital and quickly returned to it. They were having tea at John and Mary's flat, discussing the baby and life in general, when John came in the front door._

 _Mary's face changed almost immediately, going from cheerful and relaxed to closed and guarded. Molly hovered behind her tea, sensing the change in atmosphere. John was just a stroke shy of actually glaring at his wife. Considering they had been married less than two months Molly would have expected some smiles at least._

 _"Yeah, I've just been to see Sherlock." John aimed his comment directly at Mary._

 _Mary inclined her head at her cup of tea and refused to look at him. "How is he?"_

 _"He's recuperating. Slowly." Considering his tone Molly would have been less surprised if he just started shouting._

 _"Good. I have a doctor appointment myself day after tomorrow." Mary still hadn't met his eyes._

 _John surveyed the room, taking in his wife seated on the couch and Molly's presence, then grunted something about changing his jumper and climbed the stairs with heavy footfalls. An uncomfortable silence followed as Mary swallowed visibly and studied the bottom of her mug, then reset her face into comfortable lines and looked at Molly again._

 _"Sorry you had to see that."_

 _Molly leaned closer. "I'm sorry, I know it's none of my business, but are you two okay?"_

 _Mary shrugged. "I don't know. We'll see. I have some…things in my past I never told John about, and now he knows them. So…we'll see if we can get past it." She raised her mug with a sad smile and took a sip._

 _"Do you need to stay at my flat for a while?" Molly offered._

 _"Oh, you're sweet. No, thank you. This is my home, and this is where I'll stay until it really isn't anymore. I'm not giving up that easy." Mary's tone had a steely edge that Molly found she appreciated._

 _"Why not?" Molly was almost close to laughter, imagining Mary staying simply to spite John._

 _Mary's face slipped into melancholy lines as she looked around her flat and at the stairs John had just climbed. "Because I've seen a lot of life, and this is what I want. And I'm not giving up until I have no chance of having it." Molly's smile faded, realizing how serious her friend was. Mary sat up straighter and blew a breath out, her spare hand settling on her stomach that was growing more every day. "Until then, I'll just keep picking myself up." Mary gave Molly a smile behind her tea mug. Molly smiled back._

 _"You'll have to let us throw you a baby shower when it's time. Mrs. Hudson and me."_

 _Mary beamed at her, genuinely pleased. "I'd love that. Thank you, Molly." She patted her belly and looked at the stairs once more._

 _"I'll just keep picking myself up…"_

Molly gasped for air, weak and half-conscious, and sank to the bottom again.

 _Pick yourself up, Molly…_

* * *

It took John several minutes to get out of his own head enough to realize Sherlock was muttering something over and over. They were just past Canary Wharf, closing in on their location, and Sherlock had managed to shave twenty-three minutes off their travel time. But still, sixteen minutes felt like an eternity when they didn't know what was happening to Molly.

"Can't do it, can't do it, I can't do it, John. I can't…" Sherlock was focused on the road, hands clenched on the wheel, and he looked close to breaking. John knew exactly what he was going through. He hadn't wanted to lose the woman he loved either, but he had. And he hadn't thought he could get through it either, but he had. Well, he was. One day at a time.

He touched Sherlock's shoulder. "I know, Sherlock. I know." He pulled his gun out and checked to make sure it was loaded. "But we're not down yet."

Sherlock swallowed his fear and clenched his teeth, getting angry all over again. "Right."

As they got closer to Levan Wharf, John cut the lights and sirens so they could approach undetected. Of course, that would have been easier if Sherlock hadn't drifted the corner into the parking lot and screeched to a halt, tires squealing as they left a long burn mark. Sherlock was out of the car and racing in without a pause, leaving John to cover them. John took a moment to yank the tyre lever out of the car and followed.

Sherlock put his ear to the vehicle entrance door, checking to see if any voices were heard. When he detected none, he nodded to John. John promptly pried the regular human-sized door next to the vehicle one open with the lever and rushed inside, gun drawn. Sherlock was right on his heels.

Sherlock scanned the warehouse, looking for Molly or criminals. It was empty.

"She's not here." John was looking back and forth, wracking his brains. What had they missed? Where else could she be?

But Sherlock was already approaching the scattered items on the floor. He took off his gloves and pocketed them, then flipped through a few stray papers, pence and bolts before he stood back to look.

"Look at the wheel marks, look there was a vehicle here. Those are in a straight line, more or less, they fell out of a truck or a van. Molly had to have done it. She's leaving us clues…" Sherlock cased the rest of the floor, looking for more.

John swallowed, unwilling to tell his friend that it was possible Molly had tried to help them but it was too late. At least there was no blood…

Sherlock spotted the shuffling scuff marks on the floor. "Footprints, a struggle…oh clever girl, clever girl, leaving me clues to follow. What were they doing with you? What did they—"

Sherlock's voice stopped abruptly as he took in the abandoned half of a cinder block still on the floor. His eyes swept the side wall of the warehouse and picked out the coils of spare rope immediately, lying on top of a row of disused cinder blocks, and then the door that led to the waterfront.

"Oh God—John!" He raced to the door, shedding his coat on the way and dropping it. He found the door strap and heaved up, rushing the door rapidly up along its tracks. John quickly moved to help. Once it was up far enough to clear them they rushed through it.

It was almost dark and visibility was very low, but they could still tell that there were no dark shapes on top of the water, nothing out of place that indicated where she had gone in.

 _Deep waters, Sherlock. Deep waters again…_ Sherlock swallowed, overwhelmed with fear.

"Molly! Molly!" Sherlock's voice bellowed, shattering the still air.

John joined in. "Molly! Molly!"

Sherlock's voice was yelling her name, but his mind, as always, was working the problem. What would he do if he was in her place? The cinder block was half of a full one; if the other was attached to her it would be lighter than usual and might just be light enough to enable her to…

"John, stop!" Sherlock put out a hand to get John's attention and John immediately went silent. The moments stretched into torture, unbroken and smothering quiet that only held the sound of the flowing river.

Then suddenly a figure broke the surface fifty feet away, and even from that distance they could hear Molly gasp and choke, breathing deeply before she sucked in another breath and sank out of sight.

Instantly Sherlock dove in and began swimming in long strokes, heading for the place she had disappeared. John realized how dark it was getting and rushed inside to turn on the exterior flood lamps. They illuminated the area and made it easier for John to see Sherlock's head bobbing through the water, and thus Sherlock could see too.

By the time Sherlock paused to check his bearings, he wasn't sure if he had gone out far enough or too far. John was attempting to guide him to the location when Molly emerged again not eight feet away.

"Molly!"

Sherlock fought the current and managed to get to her before she sank again, lifting her above the waterline so she could breathe without sucking in fluid too.

"I'm here, Molly, I've got you, just breathe, it's okay…"

He wasn't sure if he was babbling more for himself or for her, but once his words registered she went limp in his arms, too weak to do anything else. The extra weight of her and her burden pushed him further into the water and he sputtered and choked as he accidentally inhaled some. Still, he used all his strength to push Molly up so that she was further above the waterline than him, allowing the water to lap at his face and run over his mouth as they bobbed up and down. Sherlock struggled back to the wharf, cursing the block she still carried that made his job that much more difficult. John was waiting for them and reached down, bracing himself on the railing so he could haul up first the cinder block, then Molly. Sherlock pulled himself out and joined them.

John checked Molly's pulse and breathing and then attempted to listen to her lungs with his bare ear pressed to her upper chest.

"She needs to get warm, where's your coat?"

John disappeared into the warehouse while Sherlock reclined against the exterior wall and pulled Molly into his arms, wrapping them around her. Her head flopped onto his shoulder, but he could feel her breathing against him and that was enough for now.

John returned with Sherlock's coat and wrapped it snugly around both of them, dwarfing Molly in it. "That will do, for now, let me find something to cut off those sodding zip ties and call Greg. We need an ambulance and some police out here."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock's arms tightened around Molly. "Check that Mrs. Hudson and Rosie are okay."

"That was my first call." John went through the door again.

Sherlock realized his own breathing was out of control. He couldn't believe he had almost lost her. It was unreal how much had changed since that morning. Like a nightmare seeping into real life. He held Molly Hooper and tried not to think what would have happened if she hadn't been so smart, if had he been a few minutes later.

Not long after John had procured a knife from the toolbox in Greg's trunk and cut Molly free of her bonds, after he had called Mrs. Hudson and Greg and was waiting by the road for emergency vehicles since they could hear faint sirens in the distance, Molly finally spoke.

"Don't you dare." She was still wrapped in Sherlock's arms, covered in his coat. Her color was better and her breathing was roughly back to normal, but her voice was about half as strong as it should have been. Sherlock frowned down at her.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You know that thing the hero in a story does when he decides he can't be with the woman he loves because he wants to keep her safe? Because he can't stand the thought of losing her?"

"I'm marginally aware of that trope." Sherlock was still frowning, confused. Molly touched his chin and drew his eyes to hers so she could stare him down from her lower position.

"Don't. You. Dare."

She looked as fierce as a half-drowned, sodden mouse could possibly look, Sherlock realized, which turned out to be quite fierce. And she surely had just read his mind, because he was rapidly realizing how devastated he'd be to lose her. He couldn't even imagine how badly it would ruin him.

But he was also coming to terms with how deeply in love with her he truly was. And that however terrified he was of losing her, this close call had only increased his desire to spend every moment he could beg, borrow, or steal with her. He couldn't possibly imagine his life without her in it now that she was there. Eurus had been the wake-up call that he loved her. This was the near miss that made him cling tight and damn the consequences. He would take the pain if it came, but he wouldn't fear it.

He kissed her forehead, noting the coolness that lingered. "Don't worry, I don't think I can…"

"Good." Molly smiled and snuggled deeper into his coat, resting her cheek on his shoulder with a happy sigh.

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

After taking care of Molly Hooper, Altamont Bork's hired thugs traveled back to Baker Street and forced entry into 221B. Their original plan had been to handle anyone in the house and find the elusive necklace or microdot once and for all.

That plan was instantly scrapped, however, when they found an elderly woman the age of their grans seated on the stairs with a revolver pointed at them. Her face was rigid and angry, but she kept her voice soft.

"The baby is sleeping, and I don't want her disturbed. I recommend you all leave or find yourselves with a hole in you. And then I am going to be very angry that you woke the baby."

She should have appeared frail and weak, easy to overpower. But somehow, her holding that huge revolver, staring them down with a look that promised murder and death and that she had seen much worse than them, made them decide to beat a hasty retreat. They even closed the door softly.

Unfortunately for them, once they turned to leave they found the sidewalk lined with officers, each pointing their own revolver. The dapper gentleman with an umbrella standing to one side gave them a cold smile.

"I do believe we need to have a conversation, gentlemen. In a cell. For a very long time."

The officers swept in, ready to cuff and take away the three thugs. Mycroft smiled a genuine smile and sent a text on his phone.

ALL TAKEN CARE OF. THANKS FOR CALLING. –MH

Mrs. Hudson replied immediately.

 **Thank you for coming. I owe you tea and biscuits. When should I expect you?**

Mycroft's smile slipped for a moment, but then he reconsidered it.

HOW ABOUT TOMORROW? –MH

 **Sounds lovely. See you at 4.**

Mycroft smiled to himself. He scrolled past John's reply to his inquiry. Molly was safe and would be alright, Sherlock was with her now. He found the right contact and lifted the phone to his ear again. Greg would be happy to hear they had caught Molly Hooper's attempted murderers. Now they could share a cell with Altamont Bork.

Mycroft strolled down the street, swinging his umbrella and whistling.

* * *

 _ **Phew! Okay! Another case solved and all is well! I expect one more chapter to wrap things up, and then I think that's it for this fic, lol.**_

 _ **As always, thanks for all the lovely support along the way, you guys are the best. Thanks for reading! *hugs!*** _


	15. Chapter 15

_**Apologies for being late, I had company this week and it got in the way of my writing time. Plus this got huge, lol. A chapter and an epilogue!**_

 _ **Thanks to all for reading and commenting, you are all so appreciated! *hugs***_

 **Chapter 15**

After making sure Greg had everything in hand, John left to get Rosie and check on Mrs. Hudson.

When Molly was finally cleared as weak and tired but healthy enough to go home, Greg gave Sherlock and Molly a ride back to London. Her statement had been taken and Greg promised none of the guilty parties in this case would walk free for a long time, if ever.

Sherlock insisted Greg take them to Molly's flat so she had full access to all her possessions. Molly didn't argue. Greg asked if maybe he should get her some soup after letting them out since she definitely needed food to restore her energy and Sherlock in a kitchen didn't mean anything but experiments. Sherlock agreed, Molly just rested her head on his shoulder. The more the adrenaline wore off the more she could feel the fatigue pulling at her entire body. It felt bone deep. She saved her energy for things that really mattered. Like breathing.

Greg pulled up at the curb and waited while Sherlock carefully assisted Molly out, then left after promising to return with soup. Sherlock didn't let go of Molly's arm all the way to her door, providing stability and something to lean on. Molly could feel the shaky trembling quality of all her muscles as they attempted to function for her despite their strained condition. She felt as if she had used every fiber of muscle in her body trying to stay alive, and she would pay for it over the next few days. Still, it was better than the alternative.

The moment the door closed Toby emerged from the bedroom, meowing without pause. Sherlock sent Molly to take a hot shower while he fed Toby and dug into her dresser for the softest and warmest pajamas he could find and left them on the bed. He anxiously poked his head in the door of the bathroom several times; making sure Molly wasn't in distress. Toby was picking up on the emotional vibes present and became his shadow, following him wherever he went.

Molly stood under the shower spray for longer than necessary, letting it wash away the smell and feel of river water. It felt good to be warm, even if she felt so lax she might just melt into a puddle and go down the drain. The hot water sluiced over her abraded hands and wrists. It ran down her legs over her similarly abused ankles. It made her hiss in pain, but she didn't pull away. She was so drained of energy and emotion at the moment that the pulsing, throbbing sting felt like the only part of her that had any kind of life to it.

Eventually, she decided she didn't want to stand anymore since Sherlock had checked on her three times and she was starting to weave on her feet. She turned off the water and carefully climbed out, toweling dry in slow sweeps that took longer than usual. She pulled her fluffy robe off the back of the door and slid it on, and by that time she felt ready to drop.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock had peeked in to check on her again, his eyes full of worry and care. He grabbed her towel and carefully patted her still dripping hair dry. Molly managed a small smile.

"I'm okay, just need to lie down."

"Of course you do." Sherlock assisted her to her bed and helped her in, piling pillows so she could sit up comfortably and pulling the covers over her carefully. He tossed the pajamas aside since it was clear Molly had no energy to put them on at the moment. The doorbell rang, heralding Greg's return with soup, and Sherlock hastened to open it.

While he was gone Toby jumped onto the bed and climbed into her lap, mewing. His furry face had the most catlike of concerned expressions, and he gingerly placed a paw on her arm as if checking to make sure she was really there. Assured that she was, he immediately curled into her lap and began purring.

Just looking at her beloved pet and realizing she could have easily not returned to him caused something to shift in Molly, and the numbness slipped away. Emotions slid through the cracks like sand, faster and faster until she had picked up her cat and buried her face in his fur, tears slipping from under her lids.

"Molly? Oh no, I anticipated something like this." Sherlock placed the carton of soup he had brought in on her nightstand and sat down next to her, facing the opposite direction so he could see her face. Or rather, her cat. Toby gave him a long-suffering look and meow to match but didn't move. Sherlock scooted closer and put his hands on her shoulders. "It's okay, Molly, it is. Most people go through this once the shock wears off, it's normal after a trauma."

"You don't." Her words were muffled by cat hair, but still intelligible. Sherlock smothered a laugh.

"I'm not like most people. I've made a point of it. For better and for worse, it seems."

Molly sniffled and hiccupped at the same time. "I know." She lifted her face from her cat and set him back down in her lap. Toby resumed his previous position. Molly wiped her eyes. "Sorry, it just came over me all of a sudden."

"Don't be embarrassed, one of the things I love most about you is your capacity for feeling. And you could have died. It can shake you up." Sherlock put a hand under her jaw, his fingertips lightly brushing her neck behind her ear, his thumb rubbing her cheek. Molly looked up and realized Sherlock might not show his feelings the same way others did, but her near escape had shaken him as well. His eyes were full of turbulent emotions, restrained because he had trained himself to do it most of his life and right now he felt the need to stay strong for her. "You were so clever, Molly. I wouldn't have found you if you hadn't left me clues and stayed alive. You were brilliant."

Molly smiled softly. "Well, that's quite a compliment coming from you. Thanks for finding me."

She put her hand up to touch his and the sleeve of her robe fell down, exposing her abrasions and raw flesh. Sherlock's eyes darkened angrily at the sight. He gently took her hands in both of his and they both inspected them. Molly knew he was picturing the ones on her ankles too. He took a breath in through clenched teeth.

"I would, however, like to break those thugs with my bare hands for daring to touch you, to harm you. Perhaps I should disguise myself and sneak into Scotland Yard for a quick visit."

"Only if I get to come too." Sherlock's look of surprise was not just due to her words; her tone of barely contained rage gave him pause as well. She looked up to meet his eyes, and he realized how angry she also was about what happened. "I'm handy with a scalpel."

For a moment she looked so fierce Sherlock thanked his lucky stars she wasn't angry with him. He'd have to remember her scalpel skills for future cases if he ever needed someone to pretend to be a skilled torturer. She was very convincing. Sherlock's mouth twitched, splitting in a broad grin that cut through his anger as he recognized that both of them were only half joking. She was a perfect fit for him in every way. "Agreed."

Surprise flitted across Molly's face. She had expected him to tell her she didn't mean that or she was too gentle to say such a thing. She should have known he would understand. They shared a small laugh, a moment of closeness that acknowledged the rampage of emotions flowing through them, the aftermath of their terror. It increased their bond and helped both of them realize how precious life was, how tightly they clung to each other and that they wanted a future together enough to fight for it.

Molly looked at him. The memory of Sherlock lifting her in the water, so hazy it might have been a hallucination born of her desperate air-deprived circumstance, filtered back to her. The terror in his voice, his frantic babbling. She saw the expression on his face and realized he was remembering the same thing. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock was giving her that look again. As if she was the cause of all his happiness. _"Molly…"_

She shivered in spite of herself. The way he said her name always made a thrill go up her spine. "I love you."

"And I you." His kiss was tender and careful in light of her physical condition. He smiled at her and handed her the soup carton. "Now, you need to eat."

Molly sighed. "All right." She carefully removed the lid and discovered a wholesome mix of broth, beef, and vegetables. Her mouth was suddenly watering. Sherlock handed her a spoon and then settled on the other side of the bed as she ate. She took a few bites and sighed blissfully. "This is really good."

"Good. So—oh—" Sherlock started as Toby decided Molly was moving too much for his comfort and switched people. He curled into Sherlock's lap and blinked at him as if daring Sherlock to object. Sherlock had no such inclination, so he reached down a cautious hand and stroked Toby's back. Toby's purring increased. Sherlock was rubbing Toby's chin thoughtfully, watching him close his eyes in feline bliss when a thought occurred.

"Molly, how did Toby take to Tom when you were together?"

Molly looked up from her soup in surprise. Sherlock rarely brought up Tom, she had a feeling he hated thinking about Molly with him. She took in Sherlock and Toby's coziness with pleased amazement. "Actually, Toby didn't seem to care one way or the other. He never really went near him. I just thought he could smell Tom's dog on him."

"Perhaps. Or maybe he knew Tom wasn't the right man for you." Sherlock's tone indicated he had already determined this particular conjecture to be fact. Molly opened her mouth to contest it, but she had to admit it made sense.

"Are you saying Toby using your body as his cat bed all this time has been his seal of approval on you?" She giggled at the thought.

Sherlock gestured to the purring cat in his lap for proof. Toby rubbed his face on his outstretched hand. "I don't see how it can be disproven. He knows I'm the one for you."

Molly beamed. "Toby has always been such a clever cat."

When they went to sleep that night, they were both wrapped in each other's arms. Toby was stretched out along Sherlock's back, which took some getting used to but Sherlock allowed it. Sherlock breathed her scent and allowed himself to relax knowing she was safe in his arms. Life was not loss today. Molly relished the feel of his arms around her and reveled in the knowledge that they were both where they wanted to be.

Neither had words to adequately express their feelings, but both understood. They didn't need sex or words or anything else the world deemed an expression of love. They simply held each other, and it was enough.

* * *

Mycroft flipped another paper of the file he was reviewing, leaning over the counter in the surveillance room. The Chinese counterpart Bork had been communicating with had been identified and apprehended as Mycroft watched from around the world. The last bit of this particular case was being wrapped up. It was immensely satisfying. The government agents had filed out, and he was alone which was exactly how he liked it.

Two long fingers lingered on the photo of Altamont Bork, pressed onto the brown curls. The man had finally confessed after it was made clear they had him dead to rights on murder, attempted murder, and a dozen other crimes. In some ways, he bothered Mycroft on a level he couldn't understand. He'd dealt with criminals of all sorts, and Altamont Bork was ultimately forgettable. Why did the man disturb him?

"Mycroft, what's the matter? Is something bothering you? Did we miss something?" Lady Smallwood was in the doorway. She moved into the room to stand by his side and look down at the file as well.

"No, everything has been taken care of. Nothing to worry about." But Mycroft didn't move to shut the file. He just stared down at it. Lady Smallwood followed his gaze.

"What's his story? Why did he do what he did?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sighed. "It seems he had a woman he loved, highly allergic to bee stings. The epi pen she should have had with her was too expensive, marked up to a ridiculous price by the pharmaceutical company—"

"Herling Pharmaceuticals," Lady Smallwood filled in, comprehension dawning on her face.

"Yes. They were engaged. He was studying to be a doctor. She lived in the country at her parent's home. One day she accidentally disturbed a beehive in the trees behind the house. She received multiple stings and died as a result, emergency services didn't arrive in time. If she had been able to afford an epi pen she might have lived. He changed his course of studies, worked his way into Heling Pharmaceuticals, and here we are." Mycroft looked back at the picture and realized why the man bothered him. "One trauma in his past, and it changed the course of his life forever." Sherlock flitted through his mind. "He was eaten alive by it."

Lady Smallwood gave him a look of understanding. "Some people break under the pressure of life, Mycroft." She pushed thoughts of her dead husband away. They hurt too much. "How is Sherlock? And his girlfriend…?"

"Molly," Mycroft supplied. "She is recovering. They seem to be doing well." He made a face, clearly unused to discussing Sherlock and a girlfriend in the same sentence.

Lady Smallwood crimped her mouth over a small smile. Two couples, each with a different end. It was a timeless story. "Adam and Eve," she murmured, deep in thought. "They turned out pretty well."

Mycroft sniffed. "Really? I thought that was supposed to be the beginning of all human misery." He smirked at his own joke, not expecting her to grasp it.

But Lady Smallwood looked up at him in surprise. "I love that film. Haven't seen it in years."

Mycroft couldn't hide the shock on his face, though he tried. "It's not that well known. Just one in a plethora of film noirs that emerged in the classic era of Hollywood."

Lady Smallwood returned his amazed stare with a victorious one. She was delighted to have something that surprised him. "My husband was a classic film buff early in our marriage, back before life got too busy for him to enjoy it much." Mycroft turned back to the file, pretending to be interested in it. She continued. "He preferred others, but I always enjoyed that one most."

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself. "It is a good one." He glanced up and saw that she hadn't looked away from him. He busied himself straightening papers and avoided her eyes. Lady Smallwood watched and deliberated.

"Do you need a late lunch? I know a little place not far from here." Lady Smallwood kept her tone casual despite her concern. Mycroft hadn't been the same since the incident at Sherrinford. Most wouldn't notice the difference, but she could see it. She had worked with him for too long not to.

Mycroft closed the file. "No, thank you, I have to meet someone for tea. She insisted."

"She? Since when do you have tea with anyone?" Lady Smallwood couldn't disguise the shock in her tone, and a tinge of something else.

Mycroft noted it as he rolled his eyes. "My brother's landlady. She called the other day when Bork had his men break into Baker Street. I provided help, she insisted on repaying me." Mycroft put his briefcase on the console and opened it so he could put the file inside. "Incidentally, she's old enough to be our mother."

"Oh," Lady Smallwood's face relaxed somewhat. It was interesting to see Mycroft make any kind of concession when it came to spending downtime with people. She knew he avoided it. "Well, I hope you have a wonderful time."

"I'll do my best." Mycroft gave her a tight smile, although his tone indicated quite the opposite. He closed his briefcase and latched it.

"It's not a bad thing to spend time with other people, Mycroft. Your brother seems to have discovered this; perhaps you should take a page out of his book."

Mycroft stiffened. She had crossed an invisible line, more so than even the time she had given him her private number or texted him to ask how he was after Sherrinford. Those he could ignore, but here he had to acknowledge her words or risk outright rudeness. Still, he was half-turned to leave before he halted, so tempted was he to leave without replying. The distance that action afforded him enabled him to finally reply, glancing back over his shoulder to briefly meet her eyes.

"One step at a time, Alicia." He gave a small smile and left before he could mention that he'd taken her card home and actually thought about calling her, before Sherrinford.

Lady Smallwood watched him leave, a look of hopeful worry on her face.

Only her closest friends called her Alicia. As a member of Parliament, she used her first name as her professional one, Elizabeth. It was more fitting and lent a regal feel, considering the name of their current queen. Useful in garnering subconscious respect from her male counterparts. Mycroft had only ever called her Lady Smallwood, until recently after he had accused her of betraying A.G.R.A. and felt the need to apologize profusely. It was clear Mycroft had deduced her giving him her personal number was an invitation to call her by her less formal name, which had definitely been one purpose of the gesture. Only time would tell if he could ever move further than that.

Lady Smallwood went back to work.

* * *

A week after Molly's near-fatal experience, Mrs. Hudson invited a small group to Baker Street to celebrate the happy outcome. John and Rosie arrived on time. Sherlock grumbled about it taking time away from casework but winked at Molly as he dressed for the occasion, Greg came rushing in fresh from work as Mrs. Hudson was pouring the champagne.

Molly felt a bit pressured being in the spotlight of the occasion, but Sherlock helped her relax when he seated himself in his chair and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her without any concern about who was watching. The group toasted excellent work on all sides concerning the case and Molly's good health, then chattered happily as they ate fresh fruit and small sandwiches.

Mrs. Hudson was regaling Greg with her side of the events, bouncing Rosie on her lap, when John sidled up next to Molly as she loaded her plate in the kitchen.

"Hey, Molly. I was thinking about that necklace that caused all this trouble. The one you bought from Portobello Road."

"Oh, that. I gave it away. Too many memories attached to it, you know?" Molly shrugged.

"I thought so. So I thought maybe you'd like something with better memories to replace it." John dug into a pocket as Molly put her plate down with a puzzled look and placed a small fabric pouch in her hand. "It's not much, but Mary liked it. And it has a flower…"

John's voice faded as Molly opened the pouch and withdrew a fine gold chain with a dark pink rose that had a pearl set into the middle. Molly looked at him, deeply moved but worried.

"John…it's beautiful, but what about Rosie?"

"I have plenty more for her when she's old enough. I saw this one and thought of you. Mary would want you to have it; you were such a good friend to her." John swallowed, blinking back moisture in his eyes. He was determined to get through this without getting overemotional.

Molly swallowed too. "Thank you, John. That means so much to me." She paused a moment and then reached a decision. "I thought of her when I was in the river. She helped me in my darkest moments, when I thought I might not make it."

John's eyes glimmered. Nope, he definitely wasn't going to make it through without getting emotional. "She has a way of doing that." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad, Molly. Very glad."

Molly's eyes were glimmering too. She hugged John, thanking him again, and he awkwardly accepted her embrace with a nod and a smile.

A raucous noise caught their attention in the other room. Greg was howling with laughter at Mrs. Hudson's story. Sherlock was grinning proudly at her. Molly retrieved her plate and sat next to him on the yellow chair that had been placed next to his, happily returning the smile he gave her as she did.

John had claimed his daughter from Mrs. Hudson and sat in his own chair. "Sherlock, I have another interview set up for tomorrow. If you don't reach a decision soon I'm going to pick one myself."

"It's not my fault you keep picking your possible nannies from the dregs of society, John."

"Wha—the dregs?! The last one does charity work and has a degree in child development!" John's face was filled with keen exasperation. Mrs. Hudson and Greg averted their eyes to hide their grins, and Molly didn't even bother since she knew what Sherlock would say next. She'd already heard it.

"She had excessively long fingernails, indicating possible drug use or at the least a terrible lack of hygiene. Who knows what germs and filth lie under those nails, you really want Rosie exposed to that?"

"Babies aren't sterile Sherlock," Molly muttered as she bit into a strawberry. John gestured to her as he stared at Sherlock, backing up her point. Sherlock's face slid into something that closely resembled a pout. Greg and Mrs. Hudson both smothered a laugh.

"They weren't good enough for Rosie," Sherlock insisted stubbornly.

"Well I'm running out of options, so please, please be nice to this one. She's very nice, has a good background and references, and she was really good with Rosie."

"Hmmph, sounds like a harpy to me…" Sherlock went silent as Molly gave him a look and leaned in closer. Her lips brushed his cheek.

"No one is going to be as good as Mary, Sherlock," Molly whispered in his ear. He slumped in defeat.

"Fine, but if she appears to have any bad habits I'm going to have to send her away."

"What, because you're the only one with bad habits Rosie can have in her life?" John gave his best friend a pointed look.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but clearly had no idea how to refute that. "Apparently, yes."

The rest of the group dissolved into laughter until a noise on the stairs alerted them to a new arrival. Mycroft was hovering on the landing outside the door, and he looked as if he had just been about to leave.

"Mycroft!" Mrs. Hudson left her chair and hurried to usher him in before he could escape. "I'm glad you came, I didn't think you could make it."

Mycroft was so stiff he could have doubled as a shop mannequin. He surveyed the room as if it were filled with predators: Intriguing, but deadly. "I only stopped by to say that Bork and his conspirators have been given the full measure of the law, and they certainly won't be a danger to anyone else for the rest of their lives."

"Wonderful! Come and have some champagne, Mycroft. We're already celebrating." Mrs. Hudson pulled him in before he could refuse and put a flute in his hand. John's mouth twitched as he took in Mycroft's expression. He had no idea what force of nature had just hit him.

Greg picked up Mrs. Hudson's cue and stood to shake Mycroft's hand. "Great work scooping up Bork's hired muscle, Mycroft. Thanks for that. Here, have my seat I'll get another one." He went to the kitchen to join Mrs. Hudson as Mycroft awkwardly sat.

Molly was quick to jump in after him. "Hi, Mycroft, nice to see you again. What plans do you have for the weekend?"

Sherlock grinned to himself as he watched Molly help Mycroft ease into the idea of staying at a gathering with what he clearly considered goldfish. After several minutes he almost seemed to be enjoying himself, despite his attempts to hide it. He and John traded smug smiles.

Mrs. Hudson called Mycroft into the kitchen a few minutes later to offer him some food. She handed him a plate that had twice as much as he would ever allow himself to eat. Mycroft frowned.

"When you said come over, I thought you meant tea again." His tone, while kept as quiet as possible, made it obvious that this surprise was most unwelcome.

"Oh buck up, Mycroft. Sometimes you need to try new things. Who knows? You might be surprised how much you enjoy them." She gave him a fond squeeze on his shoulder and bustled into the other room. Mycroft looked down at his loaded plate and his lips twitched into an unwilling smile.

* * *

That evening after everyone had left and Sherlock and Molly were alone, Sherlock was bent over the table examining a sample in his microscope when a particular text tone sighed in the next room.

He stilled, then straightened up immediately, his mouth open in horror. He hadn't even given that possibility a thought. She only texted him once every few months, last time to wish him a happy birthday.

But Molly was in the other room reading, and he knew she would deduce who that text must be from, even years later. And she would remember how he had felt about her.

 _Oh, God._

Despite his inclination to rush downstairs and avoid the topic altogether, his greater desire to preserve his relationship with Molly led him to slowly move into the next room.

Molly was seated on her yellow chair, the book still in her lap. He had expected weeping or tears, but her eyes were dry as she looked at the table where his phone lay. It was face down, but he knew she wouldn't have lifted it up to read the text even if it had been facing the other way. He crept closer, filled with trepidation until she looked at him and halted his progress. Her face was inscrutable.

"Sherlock, do you have something you'd like to tell me?" She looked so sweet sitting there with her legs drawn up, her feet tucked under her. But her face was blank and her eyes penetrating. Sherlock gulped.

"The Woman is alive. It's not a ghost texting me."

Her mouth firmed into a straight line. "That is the least of my worries, Sherlock."

"I know…I…Molly…" He searched for the right words. "We're not doing anything, I haven't seen her since the second time she faked her death years ago."

"She faked her death a second time?" Molly's surprise immediately changed to realization. "And you helped her. Of course, you did."

"I cared enough about her to save her life, yes I'll admit it. But not enough to stay with her."

Molly just looked at him, pressuring him to offer more detail so he obliged, aware that he was close to babbling. "She still texts once in a while. We have great respect for each other."

"Respect? Is that what they call it?" There was a quality in her eyes that made him very nervous. Like she was shut away somewhere inside herself.

He rushed to kneel by her chair.

"Molly, I swear to you that I don't want anyone else but you. The Woman texts me occasionally, but that's all it is. I don't love her." He put his hands on both sides of her face. "I love you. You're the one I want."

If he was hoping that would immediately dispel any doubts she had, he was disappointed. However, Molly's face did soften somewhat and her shoulders lowered some. Her eyes held mingled memories and anxiety. "I remember how into her you were, Sherlock. I remember what you were like during that time. Are you saying that's all just gone away?" She met his gaze, searching for the truth.

Sherlock searched for the right words. "Yes. To a point. I was fascinated, I was intrigued. She was a worthy competitor, and she was never boring. But that all fades eventually. It was an intense relationship that blazed hot and burnt out in a short time. I've come to appreciate the high that comes with a slow burning one, it is ultimately much more satisfying."

Molly's eyes flickered as she took that in, but she wasn't completely put at ease. "Did you ever…"

"Yes, she was the one I told you about. But it was years ago. And honestly, she was very educational for me. But we could never work together long term. We'd be too busy trying to outwit each other, fighting for dominance and control. The Woman is not you."

She obviously couldn't decide if that was a compliment or not. "And what am I?"

"You're Molly Hooper." He looked at her as if she should already know it. "The Woman might have appealed to my intellect and my baser instincts, but she doesn't appeal to my heart. She knows that, and I'm pretty sure she loves me better as an ideal than a person. She doesn't love me like you do. We could never truly work together." Molly still looked a bit doubtful, so Sherlock kept going. "Look, if I wanted to be with her, I would be wherever she is, and I would be with her. But I'm not. Just look at the facts."

"Sherlock, you can't fix a relationship with facts and reason!" Molly's expression was sheer exasperation and perfectly matched her tone.

"Can't I? We've been playing this game, dancing this tango for ages now, Molly. The Woman, I helped escape death and start a new life. And I haven't seen her since. Read the texts, I only reply once to her every four or five. The math doesn't lie." He reached for his phone and put it in her hand. She made no move to look at it so he continued. "You, I continually came back to. Over and over again. I couldn't help myself, even before Eurus. Excuse after excuse to see you, to have you in my life. And you knew it, you allowed it, which I appreciate but now realize was quite unfair on my part to ask for so much and give so little. But I always found a way to see you. Body parts, cadavers, solving crimes, help with John's stag night, a bolt hole, an ambulance, I could go on for days. It was always you Molly."

Molly smiled. "You're such a fast talker, Sherlock."

"I mean it. I mean every word. And I will prove it to you." He took his phone out of her hand and showed her the text on it.

 **Thinking about you. You haven't been in the news lately.**

"It's true, I haven't. I think she texts me mostly when she's bored and to make sure I'm still alive. Except for the birthday because, you know, it's a birthday." Sherlock typed a reply and held it out for Molly to see.

 **NO I HAVEN'T. I'M HAVING DINNER WITH A WOMAN. IT'S A LONG TERM RELATIONSHIP, SORRY. -SH**

Molly's eyes widened. "If you're sorry you don't have to—"

But Sherlock had already pressed send. Molly gasped in spite of herself to see him make such a decisive move. He moved to sit on the coffee table so he could face her, phone forgotten in his hands.

"I love you, Molly Hooper. You are who I want."

Tears glimmered in her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock… You're who I want too."

Sherlock grinned as he leaned forward to kiss her. Their lips moved together with blissful abandon until his phone sighed again, a breathy echo of what they were both feeling at the moment. Sherlock pulled back with a regretful sound, braced himself, and checked it. Then he groaned and handed the phone to Molly, lowering his head in defeat. Molly read it too.

 **I wondered when you would. Enjoy yourself. Just don't cock it up. xx**

Molly laughed out loud, all worry about The Woman slipping away. "Oh Sherlock, am I the only one who thinks you won't cock this up?" She put his phone down and brought her hands to his shoulders, urging him closer. He came willingly.

"I think you just might be." He smiled into her eyes. "But I suppose you're the only one whose opinion really matters. You've always been the one who matters."

Molly's mind replayed all the things Sherlock had done to prove his love to her, and the intense intimate bond they had developed. He was right. She couldn't deny the lengths he had gone to in pursuit of this relationship, even before the trauma of his past had helped him truly embrace it. She couldn't believe she had assumed it was one-sided as long as she had.

"Well. I guess you _can_ fix a relationship with facts and reason," she said.

She laughed; her shining eyes portrayed her gratitude and trust. Seeing that she understood the truth about his feelings for her and The Woman, Sherlock's gaze glowed with a rare warmth and contentment. Molly found herself filled with giddy happiness. It welled up and seemed to burst out of her, too big to be contained.

"I love you, you silly sod!"

She tossed her book aside and tackled Sherlock suddenly, leaping from her chair and bowling him over, backward off the table and onto the floor. Sherlock's surprised cry shifted abruptly to an "ooof" noise as Molly followed him and pounced on his chest. Soon her mouth muffled any sound he could make as she aggressively captured his lips and kissed him into oblivion. Sherlock was rapidly filled with heady, euphoric happiness that obliterated any other consideration.

Eventually, Sherlock came to enough to realize that despite his enjoyment, he could feel the floorboards under his back and the leg of the table pressing on his knee.

"Molly, need I point out we have a perfectly good bed down the hall?" His prim and proper tone completely contradicted the look of dopey delight on his face.

Her breath whispered past his ear. "Oh come on, Sherlock, it's okay to be spontaneous once in awhile. Relax and go with it."

"I suppose I could try…" His tone made it clear that it would be a difficult thing for him, but his eyes said something else entirely. She was nibbling down his jaw line to his chin, then his neck, and—oh. He was definitely going to have a hickey or two tomorrow. Or three. He grinned blissfully.

He was going to have to wear his scarf out tomorrow, and he didn't mind a bit.

* * *

 _ **-The necklace John gave to Molly was worn by Mary in HLV. It can be seen well during the scene at Leinster Gardens when John discovers her secret. I only just now realized it's kind of rose-shaped. Hmmm…**_

 _ **-Lady Smallwood is referred to as Elizabeth Smallwood in HLV but her card says Lady Alicia Smallwood when she gives it to Mycroft in TLD. Internet research shows most people have decided her name is Elizabeth Alicia Smallwood, so I went with that.**_

 _ **-The film noir Mycroft and Lady Smallwood enjoy appears to be specially written and recorded for TFP, not an actual film**_

 _ **The epilogue will be up in a minute or two as a separate chapter. :)** _

_**Thanks for reading!**_


	16. Chapter 16

**_Feels and good stuff! Thanks for everything guys! :D_**

 **Epilogue**

Sometime later the Holmes family gathered again to visit Eurus. Sherlock was still making regular visits on his own and adding a family one now and again just made sense. After the success of the first visit, Eurus was still wary but more open to it and even managed to stay grounded as they arrived. Mycroft, surprisingly, didn't object or complain.

Emotions were high and happy as the group exited Sherrinford and waited in the helipad. Mrs. Holmes took the opportunity to sidle up next to Sherlock, husband in tow.

"Sherlock, do you think we could arrange a nice dinner together as a family? Your father and I miss you boys."

Her blue eyes reflected anxiety and worry that he might refuse. Sherlock considered it and glanced at Mycroft, who was close enough to have overheard. Since Mycroft didn't have a grimace of distaste on his face, Sherlock decided it might be a possibility. He returned his mother's worried look with a kind smile.

"Yes, I think we might be able to do that. What do you think, Mycroft?" They all turned to Mycroft for a reply.

Mycroft was silent a moment as he thought, then his eyes began to gleam. "Why not? I'm sure you've been looking for an opportunity to introduce our parents to your girlfriend, after all."

Had he dropped a grenade in the middle of their group he could not have possibly shocked them more. Both Mr. and Mrs. Homes gasped in stunned surprise. Sherlock stared at his brother, completely flabbergasted and outraged as only a wronged younger sibling could be. Mycroft grinned.

"What's he talking about? Sherlock, do you have a girlfriend? For how long?" Mrs. Holmes peppered her son with questions. He opened his mouth to reply but she had more. "What's her name? Is it serious? Why didn't you tell us? Were you ever going to tell us?"

Sherlock blinked, trying to decide which question to answer first and highly aware that Mycroft was watching in delight. This was probably payback for the incident with the clown and the girl. Finally, he simply decided on the last question.

"Of course I was going to tell you. I was just waiting for the right time."

"What, like your wedding day?" Mycroft had the smuggest of all smug smiles on his face. It was infuriating. Both parents gasped again, but Mrs. Holmes spoke first.

"Are you getting married? Oh my god!"

Sherlock glared at his brother as he tried to stem her exuberance and get in a word or two. "No, no, I'm not. I'm not getting married. At least not…now…" Sherlock suddenly closed his mouth. Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he picked up on it.

Mrs. Holmes was still going. "Well? What's her name? When do we get to meet her?"

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look promising revenge in the near future. Mycroft made a note to double check his security system and possibly have an agent steal his set of house keys from Sherlock's flat.

Now that the important thing was out of the way Sherlock focused on his parents, recognizing that the truth was out and there was nothing he could do but provide answers and hope for the best.

"Her name is Molly Hooper, and she's a pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital."

Mrs. Holmes sighed as if it were the most romantic thing she had ever heard. Mr. Holmes simply nodded, as if it made perfect sense. "And I suppose I could ask her if she wanted to be included in our little dinner…though Mycroft may want to bring a poison checker along."

"Oh, don't joke like that after last Christmas!" Mrs. Holmes gave him a disapproving look.

The pilot indicated he was ready and the group began to move across the helipad. Sherlock was overwhelmed with questions and demands from his parents, struggling to stay on top of the conversation. Mycroft followed and realized something.

He hadn't had such a nice time with family in so long…

A chuckle drifted across the helipad, drowned out by the helicopter noise and unnoticed.

* * *

Time passed as everyone went on with their lives. John and Rosie were regular fixtures at Baker Street, a nanny had finally been approved by Sherlock with some help from Molly, Mrs. Hudson was in her element as matron of Baker Street.

"Sherlock, I think Toby is starting to feel depressed." Molly broached the subject as Sherlock was working on an experiment in the kitchen.

"Really? Why?" Sherlock barely looked up since he was at a sensitive point but she knew she had his attention.

"Well, we've been dividing our time between Baker Street and my flat, and he doesn't get as much attention as he used to when it was just him and me."

Sherlock adjusted the flame on his burner. "That's a natural result of life changes."

"Yes, it is, but he's taken to shredding my front drapes and I'm worried about him, he needs people around more than he's getting."

Sherlock looked up briefly, then quickly compensated for that by increasing his stirring rate. "What do you suggest? Do you want to bring him here? I don't know if that would be safe, he could easily get out as clients come and go…"

"No, no, actually…" Molly hesitated and then blurted it out. "I thought maybe we could both live at my flat all the time."

Sherlock looked up, completely diverted. "Leave Baker Street? I don't know if I could do that…what about my clients? What about Mrs. Hudson?"

Molly took a few steps into the kitchen, anxious to reassure him. "I don't mean altogether, just maybe use my flat as our home and yours as your office. You could be here all day, as much as you like, and then spend the evenings with me when you're not on a case. That way Mrs. Hudson isn't lonely, Toby isn't lonely, and your clients still know where to find you. Really, not much would change except that we sleep in one bed every night instead of changing around…" Molly's voice drifted off as she realized Sherlock was staring at her, ignoring his experiment completely, an inscrutable look on his face.

"Molly Hooper, are you asking me to move in with you?" His face was starting to reflect a hopeful quality she found encouraging.

"Well, if you want to look at it that way, yes I suppose I am. But it's really for Toby—"

"Because that would be a big step for us, you know, and I don't want to rush things and make you uncomfortable. I know how worried you are about not rushing things…" He was beginning to smile. A broad grin splitting his face as he teased her, leaving her equal parts amused and annoyed. Her lips twitched, involuntarily trying to smile in spite of her annoyance.

"It's not the same, Sherlock, it's for my cat—"

He laughed, arrogant and sure. "Of course it is, Molly. Of course, it is." He began moving toward her. "Because you would be nervous about such a big change, asking me to move in with you, because it indicates we might just have a future and might just belong together. And I know my previous mentions of that same topic have left you worried and feeling that it's too good to last…"

"Oh shut up, you big idiot." She grabbed him and kissed him. He was laughing when they separated, but she wasn't done yet. She poked his chest. "You know we're made for each other."

"Yes, I do. And better yet, so do you." He looked delighted. "I'd he honored to move in with you, Molly Hooper."

Molly gave him a teasing smile. "For Toby?"

He winked. "For Toby."

Their moment was rudely interrupted by the long ignored experiment boiling over.

* * *

Later Molly and Sherlock were relaxing on the couch, discussing recent events. Molly had met his parents weeks ago and set up regular communication with them. They were ecstatic. Cases were coming in at regular intervals. John and Rosie were due soon, and Mrs. Hudson had just left after visiting with them a bit.

Sherlock was busy telling Molly about his last visit with Eurus, and how despite their relationship and musical communication he still felt that there was something he was missing lately. There was a different feel to their interactions that gave him the impression that she wanted something he didn't understand. Molly, as usual, helped him ponder the dilemma and identify the actual problem.

"Feelings are so messy. What does my sister want? Why wouldn't she just ask me for it?" Sherlock ruminated aloud.

"Because she's worried you'd refuse, or because it makes her too vulnerable to ask." Molly supplied. She was invaluable when it came to helping him sort out emotional things.

Sherlock frowned, deep in thought. "What could make her feel so vulnerable? I've given her all I can give except her actual freedom, which is beyond my control and something I don't think is best for her."

"She's still not speaking actual words?" Molly asked. Sherlock nodded. "And you haven't either?" He nodded again. "Maybe it's that."

"She wants me to speak to her? Why would she want that? Our musical communication is far more intimate a form than the clunky words of the English language. Why would that matter to her?"

"Sherlock," Molly's response was quiet and careful. "Sometimes we need the words." He looked at her, and she gave him a meaningful look. And it suddenly hit him what Eurus wanted. Needed, in fact.

"Of course," he breathed. "Molly, you are so clever." He kissed her quickly and stood up to grab his phone, dialing Mycroft. Molly smiled after him.

The solution was patently obvious. Sherlock was annoyed at himself for not realizing it before. He decided it was time for Molly to get clearance to visit Eurus as well, and with Mycroft owing him for outing his relationship with her to their parents, it should be fairly easy to get.

Their trip on the helicopter was uneventful, except for the nervous quality that followed them both. Molly was about to meet the final member of Sherlock's family, and she had many worries about doing it right and well. Sherlock was about to take another giant leap in his dealings with Eurus, and his family as a whole. It wasn't something that came without stress.

They held hands to reassure each other as Molly went through the doors with him and dealt with the necessary security precautions. Sherlock had his black bag as usual and led her through the labyrinth down to the belly of Sherrinford, past the final guards and into Eurus' cell.

Eurus stood in surprise when they both entered, having expected only her brother. Her eyes warily observed Molly, no doubt a bit unsure of her feelings for the woman who had threatened to blow her up. Molly met her eyes, smiled, and took a seat in the lone chair that had been provided.

Sherlock wasted no time unpacking his violin and quickly began communicating.

"Eurus, don't be alarmed. You know Molly Hooper?"

"Why is she here?" Even Eurus' playing was quieter as if Molly could somehow understand their speech.

"She wanted to meet you. She's been asking about you and very much cares how you are doing. I hope it's okay that she's here."

Eurus glanced at Molly, sitting quietly with a tender look on her face. Finding no trace of resentment or malice, she relaxed a bit. "I suppose it's fine."

"Thank you, Eurus, truly. Besides, it's only fair that you get to meet the woman you saw your brother loved before he did." Sherlock's eyes were full of mirth.

Eurus smiled before she'd even realized she was going to. "Well, someone had to help you bumble along."

Sherlock laughed, but it didn't drown out the sound of Molly giggling. Brother and sister turned to look at her in surprise. Molly said nothing, but her look of delight and enjoyment said it all. If she didn't understand their exact words, she certainly got the gist. Eurus smiled again, this time straight at Molly. The two women's eyes met and shared a silent joke.

Sherlock smiled between them. "Come on, sister dear. Let's play."

Much later as they were finishing up and saying their goodbyes, Eurus turned to Molly and played a message for Sherlock to relate. "Tell Molly it was nice to meet her in person. She can come back anytime." Molly beamed and promised to return.

Sherlock took a steadying breath and played one last thing. "I hope you know how much I care for you and about what happens to you, Eurus. I thoroughly enjoy our time together. I admit you may have been instrumental in helping me move past the shadowy walls and ghosts that had been haunting me for so long, and for that I thank you." Eurus stood in surprise, bow at her side. She hadn't expected this. Sherlock's eyes flicked to Molly, and she gave an encouraging nod. "Sometimes I forget that words are important as well, and so I wanted to tell you, so you are assured of my regard for you. You're my sister, no matter our past, and I'm glad that you are."

Sherlock lowered his bow and held it in the same hand as his violin. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, looking straight at his sister as he approached the glass, reaching out a hand to touch three fingertips to it. He needed to make some kind of physical contact. He remembered how he had hugged her in their burned-out family home and wished he could do that again. He looked into her eyes, wanting to make sure she understood. Molly held her breath, not sure why her eyes were suddenly pricked with tears. Eurus was still standing there, surprised and pleased.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"And I love you, Eurus. I love you."

The spoken words swept the quiet cell, the first in a long time. Eurus still didn't move, frozen in the same position. But her face said everything she couldn't. The light reflected off the tears glimmering in her eyes that she refused to shed, her mouth trembling as she took a breath. She swallowed.

Sherlock smiled tenderly at her, surprised at how good it actually felt to tell her that. Just like with Molly. His look told her she didn't have to speak, she didn't have to answer, he would still be back and he would still love her. He pulled his hand away from the glass and stepped back to pack his violin quickly. Molly stood and moved to his side, and they both gave Eurus a final smile as a goodbye before they turned to leave.

Eurus watched them go, not trusting herself to do anything until they were gone. The door hissed shut and she was alone in her cell.

But she didn't feel alone. Her brother's words still echoed in her mind, his face in her vision. Her bow and violin hung in her grasp, useless and abandoned as she moved her lips in forgotten ways, shaping a new language that could not hold any form or reprogramming or recruitment for her own purpose. They were simple words, but they carried so much weight. And maybe one day she'd say them to him.

"I love you, too."

Perhaps she could get the right path this time.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly were quiet on the way home, in the comfortable way that basked in their recent experience and prolonged the good feelings from it.

It was their last night at Baker Street before they permanently moved to Molly's flat as a residence together. They had decided to have one last night there as a goodbye, even though they'd be seeing it as early as the next day.

Sherlock still had his violin with him. He unpacked it and moved in front of the music stand, trying a new melody and making notes on a composition. Molly had a sneaking suspicion it was the third movement in the piece named after her, and if so she heartily approved. It was a full sound, beautiful and melodic. It spoke of shared experiences and deep commitment. It spoke of love and happiness and the future. It was perfect.

Molly prepared for bed as he played and wandered out to him once she was done. Sherlock had stopped to make some notes on the music, so he wasn't bothered when she interrupted and wrapped him in an embrace. He smiled down at her, violin and bow in his hands, but his arms still around her waist. Molly smiled back.

"I'm proud of you, Sherlock. Eurus needed to hear it."

"Thank you. You give me strength beyond my usual measure."

"Are you ready to start a new part of life?" Her arms squeezed around his middle, letting him know it was okay to be nervous. His lips twitched.

"Once more into the fray?"

She gave him that quizzical look again, searching her memory. He could see the exact moment it came back to her.

"Oh, that was the night after you—"

—faked my death, yes." He finished for her. "I stayed at your flat, my first night in that particular bolt hole."

"You were very quiet that night. You had so much on your mind." Molly's eyes darkened at the memory. "And I was just watching some movie that came on while you sat on the couch. Wasn't it called The Grey?"

"Yes, it was. Liam Neeson."

"I didn't think you were paying attention at all. I figured you had things to figure out now that everyone thought you were dead."

"I did. But a few things slipped through and apparently they stuck with me."

Molly shook her head at him, smiling. He was always full of surprises. "Once more into the fray, Sherlock." She kissed him lightly and went down the hall to the bedroom.

Sherlock watched her go, then turned to the window to run through the piece one more time. He stood in front of it, a tall silhouette, and played as he allowed his thoughts to wander.

Molly remembered the film and his quiet presence that night, but she couldn't possibly remember the pattern his thoughts had taken. He had been poised on the brink, ready to jump off into the great unknown to tackle and dismantle Moriarty's network. He had faked his death and left behind the people he cared about, leaving them to think he was gone. And he would leave Molly Hooper too.

Sherlock continued to play.

Only now could he see why the film, a basic movie that he wouldn't have looked twice at since films were barely on the periphery of his notice if at all, had left an impression on him. The protagonist had been stranded after a plane crash, surrounded by snow and ice, fighting for his life in the face of a ravaging wolf pack. Interspersed in the story were memories of his life and the woman he had left behind.

However it could be figuratively applied to his own life at that moment, Sherlock wouldn't have paid it any attention at all except for the lines of poetry the protagonist remembered hanging above his father's desk. The first line in particular struck him.

 _Once more into the fray._

It was a modern rendition of the famous speech from King Henry V by Shakespeare that began with the iconic line "once more unto the breach dear friends". Victor's father had been a literature aficionado, and somewhere in his childhood Victor had been exposed to the iconic speech and remembered the first line. In true childhood fashion, Victor had seized onto the line and thought it perfectly fitting to yell at the top of his voice while brandishing his pirate sword, like a brave swashbuckler who feared nothing. Even now that memory was how Sherlock preferred to remember his first best friend.

And all through his life, a thread forgotten but still present, Sherlock had been drawn to that speech and that line in all its iterations.

 _Once more into the fray._

 _Into battle._

 _Once more unto the breach._

Sherlock's playing continued, weaving in and out of his thoughts.

The poem from the film had seemed particularly appropriate considering Sherlock had faked his death and had no idea if the coming months or even years would bring about a real one. He was about to enter a last good fight unable to see how it would end or what might come after. He'd had an idea those two years would forever change him, but he never anticipated them striking home the idea that he didn't truly relish being alone, and there were some people he was willing to actually kill and die for. The lines of poetry had embedded themselves into his mind.

 _Once more into the fray._

 _Into the last good fight I'll ever know._

 _Live and die on this day._

What he hadn't realized but could see now was that every day was the last good fight. Every day he was living and dying, creating a new version of himself based on the events of that day, burying the one that didn't survive. Millions of iterations of himself that were all different and all the same. All living, all eventually dying. Living, dying, living, dying. A perpetual cycle with no end all the days of his life.

Some good fights were solving a case or facing his past. Some were making sure others had a better fight. Some were simply saying "I love you" or remembering Mary without pain. Holding Rosie. Talking with John, his best friend. Making love to Molly or simply holding her in his arms. Trying to bring his family back together. Every day he woke up and entered the fray once more. And he'd keep doing it, just like everyone else, until that last day, whenever that was.

For so long he had fought to make his fights bigger, better and more impressive, filled with danger and intelligence. But now he could recognize the importance, the beauty, and the sheer magnitude of all the small ones in between, ones he used to consider boring and beneath him. And for once, he could appreciate them.

The last strains of his new composition hovered in the air as he held them, his bow quivering with trepidation and joy. He repeated the lines one more time in a soft murmur as he gazed out the window deep in thought.

"Once more into the fray. Into the last good fight I'll ever know."

"Sherlock?"

He turned and beheld Molly in the door to his bedroom, beautiful and alluring in his purple dressing gown, her hair down around her shoulders. She smiled slightly, giving him a look of pure happiness.

"Are you coming to bed?"

He nodded and set his violin down in its case. She left the doorway, leaving it open for him as a reminder that she was waiting for him. Sherlock smiled to himself, thinking how different his life was now compared to where he started when he first came to live in this scruffy flat that would always be a home to him. All the pain, all the triumphs, all the bits in between. And tomorrow he would start again, and he couldn't wait.

But at this moment, Molly was waiting. The woman he lived for. The woman he'd die for. He stared out the window one last time, caught in the moment. A prayer. A motto. A reality.

"Live and die on this day. Live and die on this day."

He left the window and strode to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

 _ **The poem The Fray is by Jon Treolar and was used in the film The Grey. I don't own them.**_

 _ **I do not have a specific song chosen to reflect the third Movement of Sherlock's composition entitled "Molly", you are free to use your imagination and find one that you think fits!**_

 _ **Thanks for reading, you guys are the best! *hugs* I have a few other ideas rolling around, so it's possible I will eventually write more Sherlolly fics. Hopefully, life will give me the time to do it. :)**_


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